


The Dark Road Winds and Bends

by pushingcrazies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kid Fic, Multi, Nontraditional relationships, Pre-OT3, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-28
Updated: 2012-03-07
Packaged: 2017-10-30 21:18:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushingcrazies/pseuds/pushingcrazies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Lestrade's wife leaves him and his kids, he is forced to take some rather drastic steps to keep his life from dissolving around him completely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work follows the BBC canon up to and through "Hound of the Baskervilles," which means Sherlock is asexual in this fic, and John is completely straight...or at least that's what he keeps insisting.
> 
> The title comes from Shel Silverstein's poem "Where the Sidewalk Ends."

“Sherlock, I’m back,” John called as he opened the front door to the flat and dropped his hold-all on the ground.  There was no answer.  “Sherlock?”  John glanced around the living room; no obvious signs of battle or a flatmate in distress.  He paused by the coffee table to sort through the post that had been gathering there for the last three days.  Brought in by Mrs Hudson no doubt because heaven forbid Sherlock lift a finger to do anything that didn’t pertain to his work.

John dragged himself into the kitchen.  His shoulder had been bothering him throughout the whole ride back from Yorkshire and it made him weary and irritable.  It didn’t help that he had taken the overnight train and had been forced to sleep on what some idiot had once upon a time deemed a “comfortable” chair.  Whoever the bloke was, he’d failed to take into account screaming children, snoring old ladies, and an ex-soldier’s war wounds.  The only thing that would have made that chair comfortable would be if it came with its own private IV drip of morphine.

Sherlock was in the kitchen, leaning over a saucepan on the stove.  Pretty much exactly where John had left him four days ago when he went to the bloody conference.

“Please tell me you noticed I had gone,” John said by way of greeting.

“Did you get the groceries?” Sherlock answered.  John was going to take that as a big, fat no.

“Medical conference in Yorkshire?  Gone for a week?  I told you about it ages ago, _and_ I even texted you as I was leaving.”

“So you didn’t get the groceries, then.  Good, I have a few items to add to the list.”  Sherlock hadn’t looked up once from whatever experiment he was working on now.  John really hoped it wasn’t going to ruin that saucepan; it was their last functioning one.

John sighed.  “Do you even miss me when I’m gone?”

Sherlock finally looked at him.  “Of course,” he said.  “My skull is all well and good to talk to, but it doesn’t give me the pleasure of your misguided attempts to make me feel unnecessary guilt.”

“Oh, fuck off.  I’m not in the mood for this.”  John pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and threw himself into it dramatically.  He noticed Sherlock’s phone was lit up.  Eleven unread messages.  “Sherlock, have you checked your phone since I left?”

Sherlock waved a hand impatiently.  “Of course I have.”

John toggled open the phone.  Sure enough, all of the new messages were dated the previous night and this morning.  Not as bad as he had feared, all things considered.  He opened the most recent one. It was from Lestrade.

_For gods sake if you dont answer soon Im going to just come over –GL_

“I think Lestrade needs your help,” John told Sherlock, who made some sort of derisive noise in the back of his throat.  John quickly sifted through the messages to read the ones from Lestrade.  There were seven in total, from as early as half five that morning.

_I need a favour –GL_

_It’s urgent –GL_

_I know you’re up you git –GL_

_What, John leaves so you go into a coma? –GL_

_Sherlock, please –GL_

_If you don’t reply in the next five minutes I’m going to call you –GL_

The other three messages were from Mycroft.  John deleted them without bothering to open them.  If it was urgent, he would text again.  “I think Lestrade’s on his way with a case.  It seems like a pressing one.”

“What did he say about it?”  At last Sherlock was showing some interest.

“No details.  Just that he needs a favour,” John said.  He wondered if there was any food in the house.  He could use a bit of breakfast.

Sherlock looked at him.  “Those were his exact words?  He said he needs a favour?”

John stared at him, confused.  “Yes.  Why?”

Sherlock abandoned the saucepan and snatched up his phone, glancing through the messages.  “Lestrade asks for help, he asks for assistance, he tells me to get my arse down to a crime scene, but he never asks for a favour except in regards to one thing.”  He began tapping out a reply quicker than John had ever seen his fingers fly before.

“What’s that, then?”

The doorbell rang, as though on cue.  “I think you’re about to find out.”  He set his phone down without sending the reply.  John shot a quick look at it.  _It’s no problem, but John’s here just so you –_ John frowned.  Why would his presence make a difference?

They could hear Mrs Hudson answer the front door and give a squeal of delight.  John was even more confused now.  What the hell was going on?  There were feet pounding up the stairs, and the door to the flat flew open, but instead of Lestrade, there was a brief flash of pink and curls launching itself through the living room, into the kitchen, and into Sherlock’s arms.  Sherlock caught the bundle with practiced ease.

John was sure he had died or gone mad on the train last night because there was no way he would ever in reality see Sherlock Holmes holding a child and _looking comfortable_ doing so.

Sherlock scrutinised the grinning bundle.  “Jordan,” he said formally.

“Sherlock,” she replied, drawling out his name.  She was grinning widely.

“Jordan.”  Lestrade’s voice came from the stairwell as he followed at a more sedate pace.  The reason for the delay became evident as an even smaller child tromped her way into the living room, clutching her father’s hand.  Mrs Hudson brought up the rear, gushing and scolding at the same time.

“…why you haven’t brought them ‘round before.  They’re so beautiful, and they look just like you!  Oh, you must come more often, it’s good for Sherlock to spend time around children,” she was saying.

“I only ask him to watch them when I’ve got no other choice,” Lestrade said.  His eyes fell on John and his whole body slumped.  “Shit, I thought you were supposed to be in Yorkshire until Thursday.”

“I came home early.  Is everything okay, Greg?” John asked.

“If I’d known, I’d’ve asked you if this was okay.  Sorry.  Look, if it’s not on, I’m sure we can still make the childminder.  No big deal.  Girls –“

“No, it’s fine,” John hastened to assure him.  “I just wasn’t expecting…”

“Are you sure?  You look exhausted, mate.”

“It’s fine, Lestrade,” Sherlock said.  He set Jordan onto the ground.  She went into the kitchen and opened the fridge; John fervently hoped there wasn’t anything untoward in there.

“Daddy,” the younger girl said, trying to keep her voice quiet. “Is that Sherlock’s special friend?”

Lestrade shot John an apologetic look.  “She, uh…she doesn’t mean that the way you think she does.”  He said to his daughter, “Yes, this is John Watson.  He’s a doctor.”

“Sherlock, I’m hungry,” Jordan whined from the kitchen.

Before Lestrade could scold his daughter for being rude or John could say there wasn’t anything in, _again_ , Mrs Hudson came to the rescue.  “Ooooh, why don’t you come downstairs with me and I’ll make you a lovely full English, eh?

“Yes, please,” Jordan exclaimed.  The younger sister gazed up at her father, clearly not happy at the idea of going away with this gushy old lady.  Mrs Hudson reached for her.

“Come with me, dear, we’ll get you nice and full.”

Lestrade imposed himself subtly in between Mrs Hudson and his daughter.  “She, uh…sorry, she’s not big on strangers touching her.”  He spoke to Jordan, “Take Jeri’s hand and make sure she doesn’t fall down the stairs.”

Jordan rolled her eyes.  “Fine.”  She grabbed the little girl’s hand from her father and led her back towards the entrance.  Mrs Hudson followed, still absolutely gaga over the two of them.  “Poor little dear,” she seemed to be calling Jeri.

Once the girls had left, John could feel his world sliding a bit back into kilter.  On a normal day, he would have been able to better roll with the punches, but today all he wanted was to crawl into his bed and sleep for twenty-four hours.  That apparently was not going to happen.  Lestrade seemed to trust Sherlock alone with his two little girls, but there was no way in hell John did.  He did not want the flat burned down around him while he slept, thank you very much.

“I wouldn’t even ask,” Lestrade was saying, “but Jenn left last night, just up and packed all her stuff.  She says she’s going to America with that bastard P.E. teacher.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock murmured.  “I always thought she would take the girls with her when she left.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes, looking so much like his daughter in that moment that John had to stifle an hysterical giggle.  “I’m sorry my divorce hasn’t gone according to your plans, Sunshine.  Anyway, I was on the phone all night with my solicitor and Kim, but she’s on holiday right now in Denmark.  She says she’ll be on the first flight home, but that won’t be for a few hours yet.”

“It doesn’t sound like Kim to take a holiday when your marriage is about to fall apart,” Sherlock said.

Lestrade shook his head and shifted from foot to foot, agitated.  “I made her.  She’s been putting it off for ages and I didn’t want her being miserable just because I am.  Look, I just need you to watch them until she comes to pick them up.  Shouldn’t be later than three.”

Sherlock nodded.  “I’ll find some way to keep them busy until then.”

“And I’ll make sure he doesn’t try to take them to any crime scenes,” John offered.  Both men looked at him as though they had forgotten he was even there.  Typical.  John and Sherlock were joined at the hip, people thought, but what they failed to realise was that once Lestrade entered the mix, he and Sherlock only had eyes (and insults) for each other.

The relief and gratitude in Lestrade’s eyes right now was so overwhelming that John suddenly wished he weren’t present for this little exchange.  “Thank you.  Both of you.  I’ve got to go, I’m going to be late for work.  I’ll just…” He gestured vaguely.  “Go say goodbye to the girls.”

John followed him downstairs.  Sherlock started to come along as well, but John gave him a none-too-gentle shove towards the kitchen with instructions to get rid of anything potentially traumatising or dangerous to little children.  It was a sign of how much Sherlock must care for these girls that he obeyed without protest.  Would wonders never cease?

By the time John got into Mrs Hudson’s immaculate kitchen, Lestrade was already saying his farewells, instructing the girls to play nice and say thank you when they were done.  Mrs Hudson watched them from the stove as she was frying up some eggs and beans.  She caught John’s eye and smiled at him, nodding to indicate that she would, indeed, make some for him, too.  He smiled gratefully and took a seat next to Jordan.

“Okay, girls.  Big kisses for Daddy.”  He leaned forward to receive one from Jordan and then one from Jeri.

“Did you give Sherlock a good-bye kiss?” Jordan asked, nearly causing John to choke on thin air.

Lestrade’s face remained completely serious.  “Of course.  I gave him a big, fat, man-sized kiss right _there_.”  He put a loud, smacking kiss in the middle of her forehead.

“No you didn’t,” she giggled.

“Sure, I did.  Are you calling your daddy a liar?  Alright, I really have to go now.”  He gave them each another kiss, and John was privately grateful that his wife hadn’t decided to take them away from him.  It was obvious Lestrade was head over heels in love with the two of them.  “Thank you for everything, John.  Mrs Hudson.”  He patted John on the back as he left.

All of John’s energy seemed to depart with Lestrade.  The man had been so full of buzzing urgency that John had forgotten his own exhaustion in the face of helping him out.  Now that he was gone, John could feel himself deflating under the weight of the task at hand: namely, keeping two little girls and Sherlock out of trouble for the majority of the day.

He wondered if it was too early for a nap.

\--

Breakfast was a rather awkward affair.  After her father left, all the energy and social grace seemed to leave little Jeri and she slumped down in her chair, making no eye contact and picking at everything from the tablecloth to the napkin to the glass of milk before her.  Jordan, on the other hand, was more than willing to take up the conversational slack. 

“I just turned seven in May,” she said in response to some question posed my Mrs Hudson that John hadn’t heard but was pretty sure had nothing to do with age.  “Jeri Lynn is two and half years younger than me, so she’s still only four.  Our school’s out on holiday right now, but when we go back I’ll be in Year Three and Jeri Lynn will be starting Reception, but Daddy says she’s smart enough she ought to be in Year One or maybe even Two.”

“Sorry,” John interrupted.  “Is your sister’s name Jeri or Jeri Lynn?”

“Her name is Jeremaya Lynn Lestrade, but everyone calls her Jeri Lynn.  Only Daddy calls her just Jeri and Mummy always hated it.  She said it made Jeri Lynn sound like a boy.”  She barely paused for breath before returning to her previous train of thought.  “Jeri Lynn is a genius, did you know that, Mrs Hudson?  She taught herself to read and Sherlock’s been teaching her maths forever. But it’s really hard to get someone placed in anywhere but their own age range, and plus there’s the whole Ass-burgers thing.  Did you know my sister has that, Mrs Hudson?”

“No, I didn’t, dear,” Mrs Hudson said.

Jeri Lynn stopped picking at the tablecloth long enough to pick at her food a little bit.




John’s curiosity overwhelmed his hunger about halfway through the meal.  “How long have you known Sherlock?  Does he babysit for you often?”

“No,” Jordan said through a mouthful of beans.  “Only when Auntie Kim’s away.  Mummy doesn’t like it when Sherlock watches us.  But Daddy says it doesn’t matter what Mummy likes anymore because she’s gone away.”  Jordan frowned for a moment, but then her expression cleared and she continued, “Sherlock’s been around since I was really small and before Jeri Lynn was even born.  He can be kinda weird sometimes, but he and Jeri Lynn really get on.  He doesn’t like me as much.”  This was said with the air of an older child who was used to always being overlooked in favour of the “baby.”  John supposed it didn’t help that this particular baby had social issues that probably made her parents fawn over her all the more.  John made a mental note to spend as much time with Jordan as possible today.

By the time Sherlock came downstairs, breakfast was almost over.  John caught his eye as he sat down, and Sherlock gave a slight nod to indicate that the flat was more or less child-friendly.  John fervently hoped Sherlock’s idea of “friendly” at least somewhat approached his own, though he was reasonably certain that Lestrade wouldn’t leave his kids with Sherlock multiple times if it weren’t safe to do so.  Mrs Hudson got up from her chair to make Sherlock some food, but he waved a hand dismissively.  “I’m not hungry.”

“I’m not hungry either, Sherlock,” Jeri Lynn piped up.  It was the first time she had spoken since her father left.  She had barely touched her food, in spite of (or maybe because of) Mrs Hudson’s constant attempts to get her to eat.  “I can’t eat another bite.”

Sherlock was unmoved.  He gazed as impassively at the little girl as he would a suspect or a particularly boring case file.  “Your parents’ rules are my rules when you’re here.  Which means you eat every bite on your plate before you leave the table.”

“But there’s too much there.  I’ve eaten loads already.”

Mrs Hudson started to take the plate away.  “It’s alright, dear.  I must’ve misjudged how big you are-“

“No, you didn’t,” Sherlock said, eyes not leaving Jeri Lynn’s.  “She never eats as much as she should because eating gets in the way of having fun.  Her mother’s convinced she learned that habit from me, but the truth is it’s something she’s been doing since birth.  She only eats enough to quench her hunger, then asks to be let down.  Now,” and somehow they all know he is speaking only to Jeri Lynn now, even though his eyes haven’t so much as blinked or shifted gaze, “you and I both know that I know you are lying.  How?”

Jeri Lynn fidgeted and frowned.  John was at the point of maybe getting Sherlock to back off a bit when she sighed and said, “Because of the gravy?”

“Good.  What about it?”

This seemed to be a more difficult question for Jeri Lynn to figure out.  “If I’d eaten a lot…then there would be more gravy all smeared around, right?”  She was staring into the distance, as though seeing an imaginary empty plate with bits of sauce and maybe a few beans strewn about.  It was a look John recognised from seeing it too many times on Sherlock’s face.  The resemblance was downright eerie.

“Very good.”  Sherlock sat back in his chair, and suddenly the air was a lot less intense.  Jordan let out a long breath and Mrs Hudson sat down.  Jeri Lynn was the only one seemingly unfazed.  “If you finish in a decent amount of time, we’ll go right upstairs and get started.”

John looked at his flatmate sharply.  “Get started with what, exactly?  What are your plans for today.”

“Same plans they always have, probably,” Jordan said.  “Maths and reading and science-y stuff.”

Sherlock drummed his fingers impatiently on the table as Jeri Lynn shovelled her food into her mouth as quickly as she could chew and swallow.  John winced; she was going to give herself an upset stomach at that rate.  Sherlock said, “You didn’t used to mind all that science-y stuff.”

Jordan shrugged.  “It’s fine, but at school they want you to do all these write-ups about it.  They never let you experiment just to experiment.  It’s boring.”

“Yes, they always want you to _show your work_ ,” Sherlock said.  John didn’t have to look at him to know he was doing _that_ face, the one that gave him about a dozen extra chins.  “Did you bring any Barbies with you?”

“No,” Jordan and Jeri Lynn both said at the same time with identical gloomy inflection.  Jordan continued, “Daddy said specifically no Barbies.”

“Hm.  We shall have to improvise, then.  Go put your dishes in the sink,” Sherlock said. The girls hurried to obey.

“Wait, improvise what, exactly?” John asked.

“Ah, John.  It’s nothing to concern yourself over.  You should get some sleep; I assume you’ve been up all night?”  They both watched as Jordan raised herself on her tiptoes to carefully place her plate and cup in the sink, then did the same for Jeri Lynn, who was too small to even reach the top of the counter.

“It’s my concern if you’re doing something Lestrade won’t like,” John said.  “What’s he got against Barbies?”

“It’s not the Barbies themselves he has a problem with.  It’s our unconventional applications of them.”  Sherlock stood up, making sure to swirl his dressing gown dramatically.  John was pretty sure he was showing off for the girls.  “Ready?”

“What does unconventional mean?” Jeri Lynn asked as she and her sister gathered their belongings.

“It means unusual or not normal,” Sherlock supplied.  He held out his arms for Jeri Lynn, who immediately jumped into them.  He swung her up onto his hip.

“Ohhh, isn’t that sweet?” Mrs Hudson cooed.  “She must really like you.”

“It’s not that she likes me, she’s just used to me,” Sherlock said.  “Jordan, are you ready?”

“Almost.”

“Why is playing with Barbies unusual?” Jeri Lynn asked, playing with Sherlock’s hair.  It was almost too surreal to process, the idea that Sherlock would allow a child to run her tiny hands through his hair, especially when her fingers caught on a curl and she gave an indelicate tug.

“It’s not,” Jordan told her sister.  “But it’s unusual to pretend they’re dead bodies at a crime scene.”

John had just been about to push himself up from the table, but upon hearing this, he froze.  “You do _what_?”

“Not anymore, obviously,” Sherlock sniffed.  “Once Lestrade caught wind of what we were doing, he forbade it.  No more playing Barbies with Sherlock.”

“You can’t do that with children,” John admonished.

“Why not?  Remember the case you so charmingly refer to as ‘A Study in Pink?’  They picked up on the missing mobile faster than either you or Lestrade did.”

John turned to Mrs Hudson for help, but she was busying herself with the dishes and not paying attention to them.  He stood up, defeated.  “Well, no crime scenes while I’m around, okay?”

Sherlock and the girls rolled their eyes at exactly the same time; it was almost frightening, the way they were so in synch.  “Fine.”  Jordan was finally ready to head upstairs, so Sherlock turned on his heel, still carrying Jeri Lynn, and the three of them headed for the door.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” John called.  They turned around, puzzled.  “Aren’t you going to thank Mrs Hudson for breakfast?”

The guilty look in the girls’ eyes suggested that manners were something drilled into them by their parents but never practiced when Sherlock was in charge.  “Thank you Mrs Hudson,” Jordan said, loud enough to be heard over the running water.  Jeri Lynn’s jaw worked for a moment, but she was barely able to manage a squeak before apparently the idea of actually speaking directly to Mrs Hudson overwhelmed her and she rocked back and forth in Sherlock’s grip, her face buried in his neck.  “Jeri Lynn says thank you, too,” Jordan supplied.

“Oh, you’re most welcome, dears.  You tell your father I expect regular updates from now on, and if you don’t come visit me every once in a while, I’ll be very sad,” Mrs Hudson said.

“Thanks, Mrs Hudson,” John added, standing up and taking his plate over to her.  He gave her a kiss on the cheek.  They all turned expectantly towards Sherlock, who was looking as though this were the most painful thing he ever had to do.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” he ground out at last.

Mrs Hudson laughed.  “You’re welcome, Sherlock.  Now run along before they make you do something else nice, like wipe down the table or – heaven forbid – take out the bins.”

\--

People sort of automatically assumed that John was good with kids.  He really wasn’t sure why they thought that because, other than when he worked at the surgery, he never really spent any time around children.  He never babysat, his sister had never had any kids with Clara, and then he had spent several years in Afghanistan.  True, he had met a few kids there that he had liked, but for the most part, they had been old enough and intelligent enough that they almost counted as small adults.

The truth was John had no idea what to do with Lestrade’s little girls.  Hell, the last time he’d been around a four-year-old, he had _been_ four years old.  He tried to think back to what sort of things he had been interested, but found he had no clue.  He couldn’t remember what it was like to be that young, that naïve.  If he didn’t know any better, he would think he’d sprung up from nothingness and straight into puberty.  Sherlock said it was fine, that he could take care of the girls on his own, that he had done several times before, but John was still convinced that if he left them alone, he would come back to find Sherlock bent over his microscope and the children long gone.

Sherlock had put Jeri Lynn down in his armchair and was currently perusing his books.  Jordan had climbed onto the sofa to help him.  What they were looking for, John didn’t know.  He stood off to the side, feeling strangely out of place in his own home.  He hadn’t felt like this since…well, ever.  He’d always felt right at home in Baker Street, even when he had first moved in and knew nothing about his eccentric new flatmate.

“I seem to have left it in my room,” Sherlock murmured.  “I’ll be right back.”  He disappeared down the hallway, leaving John alone with the girls.  They stared at him.  He stared back.

“Erm…what’s he gone to get, then?” John asked.

“ _Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone_ ,” Jordan said.

John had never once seen so much as a hint of the book around the flat.  “Sherlock has the Harry Potter series?”

“Only the first four books,” Jordan said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.  “Daddy says the other ones are too grown up for us.  But that’s okay because we only read them with Sherlock and we don’t see him all that often so by the time we actually finish the first four books, maybe we’ll be old enough by then.”

“Oh.  I see.”  Then, because he felt lame just leaving it like that, “How, uh…how far along are you…so far?”  Well, that was smooth.

“Halfway through the first book.  We started when Jeri Lynn was teaching herself to read.  Actually, Sherlock says us reading it is what helped her learn, right Jeri Lynn?  She read along with me and Sherlock and she matched up the words on the page with the words she was seeing and that’s how she learned, right?”

Jeri Lynn didn’t seem too keen to answer her sister, but that didn’t stop Jordan from continuing.  “Do you like Harry Potter, Mr Watson?  Do you want to read with us?”

“Oh, uh, call me John. If your dad’s okay with it, that is.  I don’t think I’m going to read with you, no.  I didn’t sleep much last night, so I’m going to just lie on the couch for a while,” John said.

Sherlock returned at that moment, the book cradled in his arms like something precious.  Jeri Lynn jumped off the armchair and took it from him.  The three of them settled down in chairs around the dining table while John stretched out on the sofa.  It felt good to lie down, but his mind was buzzing too much for any sort of rest.  His thoughts drifted as Sherlock’s soft baritone began to read.

Lestrade and John were on semi-first name basis, it was true, but John felt like he didn’t really know the man as well as he had thought.  They occasionally went out to the pub together with the other people from the Yard, but that was generally the extent of their interactions.  They didn’t talk about their families or personal lives beyond what their holiday plans were.  In fact, John was pretty sure he knew more about Lestrade’s ex-wife from Sherlock than from Lestrade himself.  Lestrade wasn’t the sort who liked to let people in on his private life and problems.  During pub nights, he tended to sit back and let the others do the talking.

John felt bad for Lestrade.  Didn’t he have anyone to confide in?  Was there someone who he talked to about his issues at home?  And what must it be like for such a private man to constantly have to be in touch with someone like Sherlock?  No wonder Lestrade avoided Mycroft as much as possible; one Holmes was enough, but two tended to be rather overwhelming.  John had never heard the full story of Lestrade’s very first meeting with Mycroft, but he knew it had been bad enough that Sherlock kept the two men as separated as he could.  John knew for a fact there must have been yelling involved, and he rather imagined there may have been a fist or two.  He liked the idea of someone taking Mycroft down a peg or two.

John had known Lestrade had kids.  It just seemed natural, what with his unending patience when dealing with Sherlock’s tantrums and whims.  He just hadn’t figured Lestrade’s children would be so young.  The man was over forty, John knew, though barely.  Life with Sherlock had greyed him prematurely.  John would have expected Lestrade’s kids to be older, at least ten years old.

The more John tried to read between the lines of Lestrade’s self-erected barriers, the more his head ached.  He was vaguely aware when Sherlock’s dark voice was replaced by two much lighter ones in turn.  And then Sherlock took up again.  And then back to the girls.  They continued in such an organised, predictable pattern, and John was so preoccupied with his thoughts, that he didn’t notice when they had finished.  Gradually he became aware of a pair of eyes watching him.  He opened his eyes.

Jordan was sitting in Sherlock’s armchair, watching him intently.  John’s heart leapt into his throat, but he tried to keep outwardly calm so as not to frighten the poor girl.  She wasn’t trying to be scary or creepy on purpose.  Probably.  He sat up, clearing his throat.  “Bored with Harry already?”

Jordan shrugged.  “We’ve been reading for a couple of hours.  They’re working on maths now, but I already know my multiples.  You were asleep.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” John said.  It was mostly true.  He may have dozed off a bit, but it wasn’t real sleep and he still felt tired.  “I was just…”

“Resting your eyes?”  Jordan giggled.  “My daddy says that a lot, too.”

John’s temper rose before he could stop it.  “You’ve got a bit of a smart mouth; does your daddy tell you that, too?”

Jordan’s face fell.  “Sorry.”

“No, I didn’t…” John rubbed a hand over his eyes.  “I’m just tired, sorry.  Don’t cry.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Jordan said sharply, not meeting his gaze.  “I just…I want to talk to someone, but Sherlock won’t talk to me.  And I don’t think I can wait until Auntie Kim gets here.”

“What’s the matter?”




Jordan fidgeted in her seat.  “My mum left last night.  She just packed up all her stuff and walked out on me and Jeri Lynn and Daddy.  Daddy acts like we don’t know or understand, and Jeri Lynn plays along, but I can’t anymore.  Why would she just walk out on us?”

Oh.  On second thought, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.  “Jordan, I don’t think I’m the right person to be talking to about all this.  Maybe you _should_ just stick it out and wait for your auntie.”  John gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

Her lips trembled, and John could see the tears in her eyes but she was refusing to let them fall.  “Why do adults always try to get me to talk to someone else?” she demanded.  Her voice was watery but strong.  “Sherlock ignores me, you tell me to talk to Auntie Kim, and when _she_ gets here, she’ll probably tell me to talk to Daddy, who won’t talk to me because it’s too ‘grown up’ for me to understand.  I’m not smart like Jeri Lynn is, but I’m not stupid either.  I can handle some grown up stuff.”

John started to say something, changed his mind, then tried again.  He sighed.  He couldn’t do this.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  “It’s not my place.”

Jordan’s whole face seemed to pinch together, and she left the room.  John could see the tears beginning to fall before she even made it into the hallway.  She disappeared into Sherlock’s room and closed the door behind her.  In the kitchen, Jeri Lynn looked up from the maths problems Sherlock was giving her to watch her sister leave.  Sherlock didn’t even seem to notice.

John resisted the urge to hit something.  It was really pathetic when Sherlock fucking Holmes was better at dealing with children than he was.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse any poor formatting. I'm still getting used to AO3.

Lunch was a far more subdued affair than breakfast.  Jordan kept herself locked in Sherlock’s room until the last possible minute.  In an effort to appease her, John tried to find out what her favourite Chinese dishes were before he ran to the local takeaway, but she steadfastly refused to answer his queries.  Sherlock and Jeri Lynn were hardly any more help, simply informing him that he was interrupting a very important experiment that apparently involved Jeri Lynn’s stuffed cocker spaniel.  In the end, John decided to order a little bit of everything and hope everyone got what they wanted.

When Jordan exited the bedroom at last, her eyes were red and her hair mussed.  John smiled in what he hoped was a cheerful way, as though she would be happy again if he acted like nothing was wrong.  He helped her put together a plateful of a variety of Chinese food.  She picked at it worse than Jeri Lynn had at breakfast.

For his part, Sherlock made sure Jeri Lynn ate a decent portion before they returned to their experiment, while he himself ate nearly half a carton of fried rice.  John was pretty sure he’d never seen Sherlock eat so much in one sitting and wondered if it would be asking too much to borrow the girls every once in a while when Sherlock was on a particularly lengthy fast.

After lunch, John figured Jordan was going to go hide again, but instead she went into the sitting room and turned on the telly.  John cleaned up the kitchen, putting away all the leftovers (they were going to be eating Chinese for a while, it looked like), then went and joined her.  There was some children’s programme on.  Something John didn’t recognise.  He thought maybe he should try talking to her, but he had no idea what to say, so instead, he asked her about the show she was watching.

“It’s called _Sarah Jane Adventures._   It’s about this lady who fights aliens with her son and his friends.”

John studied the woman on the television; she looked oddly familiar.  “Sarah Jane?  As in Sarah Jane Smith?  The Doctor’s companion?”

“You know about The Doctor?” Jordan asked.  She sounded impressed and surprised, though John wasn’t really sure why.

“ _Doctor Who_ was a pretty big deal when I was in school, you know.  All the boys wanted to date Sarah Jane because she was so pretty,” he said.  _Still is,_ he thought as Elisabeth Sladen dashed across the screen, trying to save the day.

Jordan wrinkled her nose.  “Ewww, she’s old.”

“Well, she wasn’t always that old, you know.  Everyone starts out as kids,” he told her.  “Even me and Sherlock and your daddy.”

“I know _that_ ,” she said. 

“Wait a second.”  John leaned forward to get a better view of the screen.  “Is that K-9?  The same one she had on _Doctor Who?”_

“Yeah, I think so.  How did you not know about _The Sarah Jane Adventures_ if you like _Doctor Who?_   Don’t you watch it anymore?”

“What, you mean the new series with David Tennant?  No, not really.  Is it any good?”  He wasn’t sure why he was relying on the advice of a seven-year-old, but maybe if he got Sherlock interested in it, it would help stave off the inevitable boredom.  If nothing else, he might be able to cajole Sherlock into being distracted by all the inaccuracies and fallacies.

“It’s not David Tennant anymore, it’s Matt Smith now –“

“Who?”

“Matt Smith,” Jordan said, as if that would explain everything.  “He’s the Eleventh Doctor.  Daddy likes it, but he says it’s not as good as the original.  But I like it a lot.  I really like Rose.”

John felt proud of himself for having stumbled upon this mutual interest.  He was pleasantly surprised that he quite enjoyed the show as well, in spite of the very childish feel to it.  If he were honest with himself, _Doctor Who_ had always been a bit childish anyway; he wondered if that was still the case with the revamped version.  Jordan also told him about a show called _Torchwood_ that her father didn’t let her watch because it was too grown up, she said, but was also a spin-off of the new _Doctor Who_ series.  He promised her he would look into it and let her know what he thought.

“Maybe you can come over on Saturdays and watch _Doctor Who_ with us,” she said.

“Maybe,” he agreed.  He didn’t want to commit to anything without talking to Lestrade first.

The show ended and another one started, some history show that was aimed at kids.  In spite of the Monty Python-esque flow of the programme, John found himself drifting off.  He stretched out on the couch, not even bothering to take off his shoes first.

The next thing he knew, it was past three in the afternoon, the doorbell was ringing, and John’s shoes had disappeared.

“Wha’s going on?” he mumbled, startled out of his sleep.  He’d been dreaming; it was fading fast, but it had something to do with Elisabeth Sladen in her early _Doctor Who_ days, and John and Sherlock saving the world from aliens.

“Auntie Kim is here,” Jordan said, scrambling around the sitting room to pick up the various things that had been scattered about during the course of the day: pencils, papers, a couple of crayons, and her art notebook.  John looked at Sherlock, but he was busy getting Jeri Lynn ready for her aunt and wasn’t paying any attention to him.  He hefted himself off the couch with a groan and went to answer the door just as Mrs Hudson climbed onto the landing with their latest guest.

Whatever John had been expecting, if anything, it was not the sight that greeted him.  Kim Foyle was not the more petite version of Lestrade that John had envisioned somewhere in the back of his mind.  No, this rather masculine woman looked as though she had absolutely no familial relationship to Lestrade at all.

She was tall, much taller than John, though that didn’t really say much.  Her shoulders were broader, and there was something definitely…well, male about her face.  She was well-dressed in a smart business suit that accentuated her long legs.  She was currently listening to something Mrs Hudson was saying, but her eyes kept glancing at John in a way he swore was accusing, like she knew what he was thinking and was used to such reactions.

                Okay, so Lestrade had a transgendered sister.  No big deal, John told himself, straightening up and smiling at Kim in a way he hoped didn’t come across as forced.  Today was just one big surprise after another, and he could handle it.  He’d been in the military, for god’s sake.

                “Hello,” John said.  “I hope your trip was alright.”  He stepped back to let the two women enter.  Mrs Hudson declined, muttering something about an important phone call she was waiting for.

                “It was fine, thanks.  Though unfortunate that it had to be cut short.”  She held out her hand.  “Kim.”

He shook it.  “John.”

                Her eyes roved around the flat, noting everything with a keen eye, finally falling on Sherlock and Jeri Lynn.  She nodded formally.  “Sherlock.”

                “Kim,” he said.  “Always a pleasure.”  John was surprised to hear it sounded like he actually meant it for once.

                The girls were just about ready to go, but John got the impression no one really wanted to leave.  The girls kept glancing at him expectantly, as though waiting for him to say something.  He frowned at Sherlock, who gave nothing away.

                “Girls, we don’t want to take up any more of Sherlock and John’s time.  Say thank you for taking care of you today,” Kim said.

                “You don’t have to leave right away,” John said.  “You must be tired from your trip.  Where was it you came from, again?”

                “It wasn’t that long of a trip, actually.  I just had to cancel a few things before I came home,” she said.  “I don’t want to impose on you for any longer than is necessary.”

                “It’s no imposition,” Sherlock interjected.  “In fact, I rather think it’s time for Jeri Lynn’s nap.”

                There was a minor scuffle as Sherlock tried to convince Jeri Lynn to go take a nap in his room; she protested (rather vocally and with many tears) that she wasn’t tired.  John suddenly wished he hadn’t suggested they all stay and wait for Lestrade.  There was nothing worse, he decided, than a crying child.  He slipped out of the living room and went to search his room for his shoes, supposing that maybe one of the girls or Sherlock had taken pity on him and removed them while he slept.  No such luck.

                He took his time looking, and by the time he came back downstairs, Jeri Lynn had settled down on Sherlock’s lap and was starting to nod off.  Kim and Jordan were on the couch together, flipping through the telly channels.

                “Sherlock, have you seen my shoes?” John asked.

                “Yes.”

                John waited for a moment, but nothing more seemed forthcoming.  “Well?”

                Jordan giggled.

                “Well what?” Sherlock asked.

                “Well, where did you last see them?  Did you put them in my room?  Did you nick them for a bloody experiment?”  John caught sight of Jordan’s face; she had a mischievous glint in her eye that she was desperately trying to hide.

                “The girls took them,” Sherlock said.

                Jeri Lynn buried her face in Sherlock’s shirt, though whether from embarrassment or because she was trying to sleep, John wasn’t sure.  Jordan could no longer contain the shit-eating grin she’d been holding back.  “You have to deduce where we put them,” she said.  “We left clues all over the flat.  Auntie Kim and Sherlock aren’t allowed to help you.”

                “Why not?” John asked.

                “Because they always hide stuff in the same place,” Kim answered.  “A trick they learned from Lestrade.  He used to do the same thing back when we were in school.”

                “Les- Sorry, do you mean he’s not your brother then?”  Okay, maybe that wasn’t very subtle, but John was distracted and confused.

                “No, we were best mates in school.  I’m not really related to the girls, Lestrade just calls me their aunt.”

                That somehow made a little more sense to John than the idea that Kim was actually Greg’s brother/sister.  There wasn’t much of a family resemblance, if he were perfectly honest.  “Right,” he said.  “Shoes.  I’ll be right back.”

                He checked all the places two little girls might think to hide something – cupboards, closets, under the furniture, the fireplace – and found nothing.  He didn’t even find any of the “clues” that were supposed to point him in the right direction.  Jordan tagged along behind him, pointedly keeping her mouth shut when he asked for help.  Jeri Lynn slowly fell asleep on Sherlock’s lap, thumb in her mouth and tears still glittering on her cheeks.  Sherlock himself slipped into something of a meditative doze (or at least that’s what he called it; John called it taking a nap).  Kim alternately watched the telly or watched John and Jordan’s progress.

After a cursory search yielded no results, John went back to the living room to do a methodical sweep of the whole flat.  Half an hour later, he assumed Jordan would grow bored with her game and tell him where his shoes were, but apparently she had the patience of a saint.

                “I give up,” he said at last.  “Did you chuck them out with the rubbish?”

                “Noooo,” Jordan said.  “You can’t give up.  You have to keep looking.”

                “Enough’s enough, love,” Kim said.  She stood up and walked into the kitchen.  John watched as she opened the freezer and extracted his shoes from the very back, underneath a bag of peas he was sure hadn’t been touched in over six months.

                “Good thing I didn’t need to go anywhere this evening,” John grumbled.

                Kim smiled.  “You get used to cold feet if you hang around Lestrade too long.  He used to do the same thing at school.  Strictly speaking, students were supposed to go near the big freezer, but he just had to smile at the cooks and they let him get away with it.  He was a bit of a charmer, back in the day.”

                “He, uh…he prefers to go by his surname, then?” John asked.  He was beginning to feel like he didn’t know Lestrade at all.  “He told me I could call him Greg if I wanted, but if he prefers Lestrade…”

                “He went exclusively by Lestrade at school.  Hated his first name.  I guess I just never bothered to retrain myself to call him Greg.”  She smiled wryly.  “Sounds strange to say it even like that.  I think the only person who ever really called him by his first name was Jenn.  Other than his parents, obviously.”

                “Did he have any embarrassing playground nicknames?”

                Kim’s smile became twisted, bitter.  “Well, there was ‘poof-lover’ and ‘cock-sucker,’ but I doubt you’ll want to use those.”

                John winced.  “I’m sorry.”

                “It’s fine,” she said.  “We weren’t exactly the most popular kids in school, but he made my life bearable.  I don’t know what I’d have done without him.”

                John recalled his earlier musings about whether or not Lestrade had a person on whom he could rely, and realised that person was sitting right there in front of him, daintily picking at a loose thread in her skirt.  It made him feel more relieved than it should have, considering he and Lestrade were barely more than acquaintances; he chalked it up to Lestrade being such an important part of Sherlock’s life.  And whoever was important to Sherlock was important to John simply on the basis that when Sherlock kept busy, John’s life was a lot easier.

                “What does cock-sucker mean?” Jordan asked.  John had forgotten she was sitting close by and apparently listening to everything they were saying.

                “It’s a very mean name to call someone,” Kim said.  “Don’t you let your daddy hear you saying it or he’ll wash your mouth out with soap.”

                It was starting to get late in the afternoon and Lestrade would be back soon.  Or at least John hoped he wouldn’t get tied up with something at the office.  Conversation trailed away, leaving an awkward silence behind as everyone stared at the television, not really watching.  Sherlock woke up halfway through _Horrible Histories_ and immediately became engrossed, much to John’s amusement.  John got up to make tea not long after that.  The kettle was just about to boil when they all heard footsteps on the staircase; it seemed Lestrade had managed to get out of work early.

                “Daddy,” Jordan cried as he stepped into the front room.  She bounced across the room and into his arms.

                “Hello, sweetie,” he said.  He looked tired but managed a grin for her.  “Still got all your fingers and toes?  Eyebrows?  Nothing blown up or broken?”

                “Nope,” she giggled.

                He pretended to gnaw on her neck.  “Good.”  He looked at Jeri Lynn, who had just woken up and was rubbing her bleary eyes.  “Got a hug for your old man?”  He set Jordan down and scooped up Jeri Lynn, blowing a loud raspberry on her forehead that made her squeal with laughter.

                “How was work, Daddy?” Jordan asked.

                “It was good,” he said.  “I’ll tell you all about it tonight.  First, we need dinner.  What do you ladies feel like?”

                “We bought Chinese for lunch but no one really ate much, so there’s still plenty left if you want to stick around,” John offered.  “It’ll probably end up being thrown out or used for an experiment if you don’t.”

                “That sounds lovely, doesn’t it?” Lestrade said, though he was talking more to his children than to John.  “Didn’t you eat your lunch, girls?  Jordan, I expect it from your sister but not from you.”

                “I wasn’t hungry,” she mumbled, escaping into the kitchen on the pretence of helping with the tea.  John followed her in there as Lestrade’s rumbly voice instructed Jeri to ask Sherlock nicely to borrow his comb and help her straighten out her sleep-mussed hair.

                “Are you going to talk to him about…what you wanted to talk about earlier?” John asked Jordan.

                “Yeah.”  She turned on the taps and began washing her hands while John got milk and sugar for those who wanted it.  “Tonight, after Jeri Lynn goes to sleep.”

                John glanced back into the living room.  Lestrade was apparently taking advantage of having been left alone with Kim and was embracing her like she was the only raft in a wide, lovely ocean after a shipwreck.  John’s heart went out to him; he had to put up a brave face for his daughters, but deep down he must be in a lot of pain right now.  Even if he had been expecting his wife’s departure for some time now, Lestrade was for the most part an optimistic man.

                Jordan came up beside John, saw what he was looking at.  “They used to date, before daddy married Mum,” she said in an undertone.  “Mum told me.  Now that she’s gone, do you think they’re going to date again?”

                “I don’t know,” John said.  “Probably not, if they broke up in the first place.”

                “Good,” Jordan said.  “I want Kim to stay my auntie; I don’t want her to be my new mummy.”

                John wasn’t really sure what to say to that.  “It’s probably a little too early to start thinking about new mummies,” he said.  “Maybe your dad wants to be alone for a little while.”

                Jordan’s eyes widened.  “He’s not alone; he’s got me and Jeri Lynn.  Is he going to send us away?”

                “No, I…I didn’t mean…Alone with you girls, that’s what I meant.  You know, just be on your own for a little while.”  John wondered if he really liked the taste of his own foot tonight because he sure kept sticking it right in his fucking mouth.  Frustrated, he headed back into the living, making sure to announce his approach with rattling cups and as much stomping as he could get away with.  He needn’t have bothered; Jeri Lynn and Sherlock had already returned, and Kim and Lestrade were a safe distance apart.

                Lestrade spent the rest of the evening regaling them with stories about his co-workers.  He told them about how Dimmock managed to get himself locked in the supply closet for nearly half an hour after lunch.  Kim accused Lestrade of having been the one to lock him in there, but Lestrade swore up and down that it wasn’t true.  He laughed apologetically when John told him what the girls had done to his shoes while he was asleep.

                “Sorry about that,” he said.  “They learned some bad habits from their old man, I suppose.  Girls, it’s not nice to pick on someone who’s doing you a favour.  Say you’re sorry.”

                “Sorry, John,” they chorused.  John waved it off, admitting it had been a rather amusing way to spend the afternoon.

                “Daddy, guess what John likes?” Jordan said.

                Lestrade pretended to think about it for a moment.  “Um, ponies?”

                “No.”

                “Elephants?”

                “No!”

                “One-Eyed, One-Horned, Flying Purple People Eaters?”

                ” _Daddy_.  I meant a telly programme,” Jordan said.

                “Oh, well why didn’t you say so?” Lestrade popped a piece of sweet and sour chicken into his mouth.  “Okay, what programme?”

                John was entranced by the easy way Lestrade dealt with his children.  No wonder the man was so good at keeping Sherlock in line.  He was curious if Lestrade had been a nervous father at first, thought that maybe he wouldn’t be able to raise two little girls.  Maybe it had taken years of practice to get to this point.  Or maybe he had always been a natural hand with children.  It wasn’t implausible, given the man’s good nature and easy-going attitude.  John watched as Lestrade listened to his daughter talking about them watching _Sarah Jane Adventures_ earlier; he was completely engrossed in what Jordan was telling him about K-9 and could John please, please, _please_ come over and watch _Doctor Who_ with them on Saturdays.

                Lestrade glanced up at John, caught his eye, and winked.  His attention shifted right back to Jordan seamlessly, as though it had never left in the first place.  John looked away, embarrassed at having been caught staring.

                He had never considered the possibility of having kids before.  Well, no, that wasn’t quite true, but it had always seemed like such a far-away goal.  He was still in the prime of his life and nowhere near ready to settle down with a woman.  Plus, now, there was the whole Sherlock factor.  Having him around was exactly like taking care of a child – an overgrown, temperamental child.  But a wife and family had always been part of his “someday.”  Maybe it was time to re-evaluate his goals.

                “Daddy, I’m full,” Jeri Lynn said, interrupting John’s train of thought.

                “Let’s see,” Lestrade said.  Jeri Lynn obediently pulled up her shirt to show off her round little belly.  Lestrade scrutinised it, then poked it with a finger.  “Hmm, nope, you’re not quite full.  There’s still enough room in here for five pieces of broccoli and…oh, three pieces of beef.”

                “Two big pieces.”

                “Three medium ones.  Here, this one, this one, and this one.”  He separated three pieces of beef from the rest on her plate.  She ate them and the broccoli, and pushed her plate away with a grin.  Lestrade smiled in return and ruffled her hair.  “That’s a good girl,” he said.

                When they finished eating, everyone adjourned back to the living room except John and Lestrade, who stayed behind to clean up.  John protested that he could do it on his own, but Lestrade would hear none of it.  He scraped the remainders of food off the plates and into the bin while John ran soapy water into the sink.  They were silent for the most part, and John found it was not nearly as awkward as he once thought spending time alone with the detective inspector might be.

                “I really appreciate all this, John,” Lestrade said at one point.  “Putting up with the girls and Kim when you’re running on no sleep and all.  I know they can be a handful.”

  1. They take after you.”



                Lestrade let out a surprised laugh.  “That they do,” he said.  “But that’s not always such a good thing.  Think your shoes have defrosted yet?”

                John laughed as well, which make Lestrade laugh harder, and soon the two of them were nearly collapsed in sleep deprivation-induced merriment.  Sherlock poked his head around the corner, eyes wide, as though concerned that they had finally lost their minds.  John found that hilarious, which produced another round of giggles.  Sherlock went back into the sitting room, muttering something about stupidity being contagious and he hoped it couldn’t be transmitted through touch.  John and Lestrade managed to calm down long enough to finish the dishes and then headed into the living room, feeling much better and far less tense than either of them was willing to admit they had been.

                The evening was winding down and everyone could feel it was time to call it a night.  Lestrade held off the girls’ protests by promising they could come visit again soon, as long as John and Sherlock said it was okay.

                The girls each gave Sherlock a hug and a kiss on the lips goodbye.  John tried to hide his amusement and failed miserably; fortunately, Sherlock was too distracted to notice.  His laughter disappeared, however, when Jordan pulled him down for a hug and a kiss of his own.  He would never admit it, but the gesture meant more to him than he had anticipated it ever could.

                His amusement returned quickly when Lestrade, at his children’s prodding, gave Sherlock an over-exaggerated hug and a kiss on his forehead, which Sherlock bore with all the grace of a patient dog having his tail pulled by a boisterous toddler.

                “Give John a kiss, too,” Jordan prodded.

                “No, I’m good.  Thanks anyway,” John said.  Lestrade raised an eyebrow at him as though to ask “why not?”  Almost a challenge.  John shifted uncomfortably, his smile fading.

                “Alright, girls,” Lestrade said.  “Let’s get moving.”  He herded them towards the door.

                “Lestrade.  A moment,” Sherlock said before they were fully into the stairwell.  Lestrade nodded, handed his car keys to Kim, and gestured for her to get the girls settled and read to go.  He watched their progress down the stairs and made sure they were well outside, the door firmly shut behind them, before he turned around to face Sherlock.  John observed how his whole demeanour had changed in the course of a minute: he was completely closed off, his body language professional and polite, but wary.  He looked at Sherlock with an impassive eye, in full DI-mode.

                “What is it, Sherlock?”

                Sherlock was unaffected by the sudden change.  “It won’t work, and you know it.”

                Lestrade glanced at the door where his children had just left.  He shook his head sadly.  “We thought if she left, she’d take the girls with her.  We weren’t prepared for this.”  He looked levelly back at Sherlock.  “If you have any better suggestions, I’d love to hear them.”

                When Sherlock didn’t say anything for several long moments, Lestrade turned and left without another word.  John felt his last bit of energy drain away unexpectedly; he bid Sherlock goodnight and climbed the stairs to his room before he collapsed.


	3. Chapter 3

                By the next day, things were back to normal in 221B.  Sherlock, finished with whatever he’d been working on the other day, became whiny and bored, and John began wondering if the next murder for Scotland Yard to investigate wouldn’t be his.  Not that it would be difficult to investigate; on the other hand, he was pretty sure some of the officers – Sergeant Donovan, for instance – would be willing to turn a blind eye.

                On Friday, a man came looking for help locating his missing wife.  John figured even something as pedestrian as a missing person was better than sitting around the flat moping, but Sherlock would have nothing to do with it.

                “I have to keep my mind sharp,” he said.  “I can’t be filling it with useless drivel like Mr Gates’ errant wife.”

                “Oh yes, because sitting around in your jim-jams is ever so mentally stimulating, isn’t it?” John snapped.  Most of the time he had no problem dealing with Sherlock and his mood swings, but he had been on edge since the other day when he had helped Sherlock take care of Lestrade’s children.  He was unnerved by the idea of _Sherlock_ and _kids_ , but even more frustrating was the way Sherlock was so completely…well, Sherlock about the whole thing.  To him, it was just a day like any other; for John, it had felt like his whole world had been turned upside-down.

                “What did you mean when you told Lestrade it wouldn’t work,” John had asked the next day.  “Do you think he’s going to get back together with Kim?”

                Sherlock had just ignored him, not even commenting on John’s knowledge of Lestrade’s past relationship.  He had simply gone back to taking apart the toaster to “see if he could make it more efficient.”  When John pressed him, all he would say was that it was between him and Lestrade, and that Lestrade knew what he meant, so John shouldn’t worry his simple little mind about it.  Sherlock was cryptic at the best of times, but John had long since become a master at reading his moods, and he could tell there was something worrying him.  He left it alone, rather than trying to force Sherlock to discuss his problems.  Heart-to-hearts tended to make them both uncomfortable, and John was in no mood for discomfort.

                The next case Sherlock got from New Scotland Yard came from Gregson, which made Sherlock visibly happy.  He liked Gregson for some reason that John couldn’t really decipher; he found the older DI to be arrogant and a little condescending.  Of course, that was probably why Sherlock enjoyed his company so much.  He often said that Gregson was smarter than Lestrade, though Lestrade had a better gut instinct and was less jaded than Gregson.  Sherlock’s favourite pastime at the Yard, other than Donovan-baiting, was pitting the two DI’s against each other, which – to be fair – wasn’t all that difficult to do.

                The case was a good one.  Man in a locked room – no open windows, no place where an intruder could have gotten in – found dead without so much as a scratch.  No defensive wounds, nothing.  Asphyxiated, smothered with a pillow, given the fibres found inside his lungs.  There were several pillows lying around the crime scene, but not a single one of them had the same fabric as the murder weapon.  Sherlock was nearly beside himself with joy.

                “This is a real case,” he told John in the cab ride to the Yard.  “Not that drivel Lestrade usually sends our way.”

                And when had “my way” become “our way”?  Probably around the time John had quit the surgery to assist Sherlock full-time, two days before Sarah broke up with him for good.  It irked him when Sherlock said things like “us” or “ours” but he had long since given up trying to explain to the so-called genius why it was a problem.  Sherlock didn’t set much store by what other people thought in their “mundane, uneducated” minds.  Infuriatingly, Lestrade was inclined to agree with Sherlock when John groused about it to him.

                “Don’t know why it bothers you so much,” Lestrade had said.  They were at yet another crime scene, standing by to hear what Sherlock had to say.  Lestrade was leaning casually against the wall while John was busy snarling at the new bloke who had made some uppity remark about the “couple who was here to help.”

                “Because I’m not gay,” John snapped.  “How would you like it if everyone you met thought you were gay?”

                “Sherlock’s a difficult man to get along with at the best of times,” Lestrade had said with a shrug.  “You can’t blame people for assuming you’re getting more out of your friendship than a flat share and an entertaining way to spend your days.”

                “Yeah, but that doesn’t account for complete strangers thinking we’re together,” John had said.

                Lestrade hitched his shoulders again.  “Who cares if strangers think you’re gay.  It’s not exactly the most offensive thing someone could think of you.”

                “Let’s see it happen to you, see if you’d still say the same thing,” John had said.  That, of course, had been long before John met Kim and found out Lestrade was the only person to befriend the obviously effeminate young man in school (back when she was “Karl”).  Gay was by far the nicest thing Lestrade had been called as a youth.  John would have felt guilty about the whole thing, but he had a reputation, _damn it_ , and Sherlock was destroying it bit by bit with his mere existence.  It was downright infuriating.

                Sherlock and Gregson were currently discussing this recent case, leaving John to his own devices.  Gregson was just about as fond of John as John was of him, so he tended to be excluded from cases Gregson worked.  Which would have suited John just fine except Sally was under the (mistaken) impression that John wanted to know all the latest gossip, and used Gregson’s dismissal of him as the perfect opportunity to fill him in on everything.  Today, Sherlock and Gregson had barely been ensconced in the latter’s office for five minutes when she descended on him.

                “Did you hear about Lestrade’s wife?” she asked.

                “Yeah, I did.”

                She goggled at him.  “How?”

                John winced, realising he should have feigned ignorance.  “Wagner told me.”

                Sally made a derisive noise that quite frankly sounded like it hurt.  “That man is the nosiest person in the office.  And people say women gossip a lot?”

                “Yeah, it’s terrible,” John replied distractedly.  He had just caught sight of Lestrade going into his office and wanted to say hello.  “I’m going to go…ask him what it’s like to fail at life.”

                He left Sally gaping at him like she couldn’t figure out if he was serious or not.  To be fair, it sounded like the sort of thing Sherlock might actually ask someone, so it wasn’t a far stretch for someone who thought John was easily influenced by those around him.  It was a mistake many people made because of John’s quiet demeanour and deference to Sherlock.  Unlike the whole gay thing, it was a mistake John was willing to let slide because it let him get away with a lot of stuff.

                John knocked on Lestrade’s door, which had been left ajar.  Lestrade looked up, saw John, and rolled his eyes.  “Gregson?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

                “Yeah.  Sherlock’s pretty keen on the case,” John said.

                “He would be.  Gregson said it would be one for him from the very start, but he wanted to give it a go first.”  He propped his feet up on the desk and gave John a sympathetic look.  “Tobias is a complete dickhead, but he’s good at what he does, and he keeps Sherlock busy.  Wish I had something for him to do more often, but believe it or not we actually manage to solve quite a few cases on our own.”

                John chuckled.  “I believe it.  Sherlock mightn’t, though.  And trust me, no one appreciates Sherlock being kept busy more than I do.  Even if it is with Mr ‘your little friend can wait outside’ Gregson.”

                “Gregson’s had a giant man-crush on Sherlock since the first time I introduced them,” Lestrade said, making a disgruntled motion with his shoulders.  “Doesn’t want you butting in, I suppose.”  He grinned.

                John snorted, casting about in his mind for a change of subject.  “Is everyone going to the pub this Friday?”

                “Oh…I don’t know.  Probably.  I won’t be there; I have to get home to the girls.  They’re still on holiday for the next few weeks, and Kim can only put up with them for so long, so I try to get home on time most evenings,” Lestrade said.

                “Things are working out okay, then?  With the girls and everything?”  He hoped he didn’t sound too nosy, but he was honestly curious about how they were doing.

                Lestrade smiled, though it was a little sad.  “They miss their mum like crazy, but they adore Kim.  It’s only a matter of time before they fully warm up to her.  Jeri’s taking it hard because disruptions to her routine bother her, but she’s being a brave little girl for Daddy’s sake.  Jordan’s a real trooper, though.”  He gave John a meaningful, slightly berating look.  “But she can’t figure out why her new friend doesn’t want to come watch _Doctor Who_ with her.”

                John blushed.  “I didn’t think you were serious about that.”

                “Jordan’s very serious for a little girl.  Too serious, sometimes.  She forgets to have fun…” He trailed off, thinking, but then remembered that John was still there.  “She’d love for you to come by any time.  Just give us a ring first.”

                “I’ll do that.  I really enjoyed having your girls stay the day with us.  Jeri and Sherlock seem to get along really well, which I wasn’t expecting.”

                Lestrade nodded.  “Unfortunately, he tends to ignore Jordan, which happens a lot.  She’s used to it, I think.”

                “I got the same impression,” John said.  “Because of her sister and everything.”

                “Yeah.  It’s good for her to be around adults who don’t fawn all over Jeri all the time.”  His smile was fatherly and kind, and John found himself reciprocating without meaning to.  “’Swhy she likes you so much.  It’ll do her ego wonders if you came over once in a while.”

                “Okay,” John said.  “I’ll definitely do that.”  He caught sight of Gregson and Sherlock hurrying out of the office, and headed for the door.  “I’d better catch up with them before they leave me behind.”

                “See ya,” Lestrade called after him.

                The trip to the crime scene turned out to be fairly exciting.  Sherlock scoured the room for nearly an hour, going over it several times before even he noticed the secret passage way behind one of the walls.  This, however, led to more questions than answers.  Who knew the victim well enough to know about the secret passage?  Had the victim been aware of it?  He was new to London, so maybe the killer had caught him by surprise.  That would explain why there were no signs of a struggle, but even a man caught unawares would fight back against an attacker, so why were there no defensive wounds?  And where the hell was the murder weapon?

                Sherlock followed the passageway to the end, instructing Gregson and John to stay back, lest they disrupt his train of thought.  After another forty-five minutes of twiddling his thumbs and avoiding small talk, John decided Sherlock wouldn’t be coming back any time soon, and headed home.  Sherlock didn’t arrive back at Baker Street until nearly eleven that night, going on and on about Persian throw pillows and left-handed repairmen.  John, once upon a time, would have tried to listen and keep up, but by now he had learned the best course of action was to let him figure it out on his own time and just stick around for the big reveal.  Sherlock had a real thing for the “big reveal.”

                The case still wasn’t solved two days later when John sat on the living room sofa, debating whether or not to ring Lestrade.  Sherlock had come home last night with boxes upon boxes of different types of pillows to examine.  He was only halfway through, with no success, and whenever John did something he considered “disruptive,” such as getting a couple of biscuits from the cupboard, he would make some loud, snide remark about how much John was starting to resemble his brother in girth.  Or, more offensively, a baby elephant.  Deep down, John knew Sherlock was just frustrated with the case, and that the frustration was actually a good sign; it meant he was mentally occupied and would stay that way for a while, not to mention the greater sense of satisfaction he would feel when he finally solved the puzzle.

                Even though he knew this, John couldn’t help but feel resentful towards his flatmate at the moment.  Getting out and being around friendly people for a change sounded like a good idea, yet something kept holding John back.  He would be welcome, he was sure, but he had never been to Lestrade’s flat before.  Would it be awkward?  Maybe he should bring some beer with him just in case.  But what if Lestrade didn’t approve of drinking in front of his children?

                Sod it, John decided finally, shoving his mobile into his trouser pocket.  Anything was better than sitting on a mountain of pillows, stomach rumbling because of the complex Sherlock was giving him.

                He arrived at Lestrade’s flat at quarter to five in the evening, realising belatedly that he hadn’t phoned ahead.  Nothing for it now.  He knocked on the door.  Several shouts came from inside the flat before the door opened to reveal a rather harried-looking Lestrade.  His expression turned from disgruntled confusion to surprised delight at the sight of John.

                “Didn’t think you were coming, mate,” he said, stepping back to let John in.  “Might’ve warned you if I’d known.  Jordan’s got company over.”  He raised his voice to shout over the sound of children arguing and the loud television, “The cavalry’s  arrived.”

                Kim poked her head into the front hall as Lestrade distractedly tried to take John’s jacket while he was still wearing it.  “Good.  Now we’re even numbered.  They won’t take us down so easily.  Hello, John.”

                “Hi.”  Maybe putting up with Sherlock’s scathing remarks wasn’t such a bad way to spend an evening after all.  Unfortunately, Jordan chose that moment to come see who was at the door.  Upon seeing John, she flew into his legs, nearly knocking his crotch with her head.  She hugged his legs tight and grinned up at him.

                “You came, you came!  Wait until Beth sees you.  Her mum reads your blog and thinks Sherlock’s wonderful.  Beth is jealous I know someone famous.”  She grabbed his hand and started to drag him down the hallway into the living room.  “Did you come to watch _Doctor Who_ with us?”

                “Yes, I did,” John said.

                Lestrade’s flat was probably normally quite orderly and clean, in spite of two young girls living there.  But right now it looked like a disaster zone.  There were remnants of colouring projects, Legos, Barbies, and stuffed animals everywhere.  There was what looked like it might have been a fort in the dining room, but now was just a pile of blankets and pillows.  Jeri Lynn was curled up in the middle of the pile, sucking her thumb and clutching her stuffed cocker spaniel to her chest.  She looked about as overwhelmed as John felt.

                “Beth,” Jordan shouted down the hallway.  “Beth, come meet my friend John.”  She tugged on John’s hand to pull him over to the couch, where she pushed him down.  “You sit here.”

                “Don’t be bossy,” Lestrade said from somewhere.  Probably the kitchen, though John wasn’t entirely sure.  His guess was confirmed when Lestrade came into the room bearing a bottle of wine and two empty glasses, Kim following behind with another glass, this one half filled.  Jordan bounced down the hallway, calling for her friend.

                “Full house tonight,” John said.  “I’m sorry, you said to call before I came over.  I wasn’t thinking.”

                Lestrade shook his head.  “No problem.  We could use the help.  He set the glasses on the coffee table and gestured with the bottle to ask if John wanted some.  He nodded.

                “I almost brought beer with me,” he admitted.  “But I wasn’t sure if you’d approve.”

                Lestrade poured two healthy measures into the glasses.  “I’ve let Jordan try beer before.  She spent the next hour guzzling down water trying to get the taste out.  Don’t think she’ll be trying any alcohol again soon.”

                John laughed.  His uncle had done the same thing to him with cigarettes.  To this day, he still hated the taste and smell of them.  It probably didn’t help that his uncle had died of lung cancer when John was fifteen.  He took a sip of the wine; it was pretty good.  Nothing fancy, but John certainly wasn’t one to turn his nose up.

                Lestrade went over to Jeri Lynn and nudged her with his foot.  “What did we agree about the thumb sucking?”

                Jeri Lynn didn’t answer, but took her thumb out of her mouth and attached herself to her father’s foot.  Lestrade pretended to try to shake her off, which made her giggle and hold on tighter.  “Alright, you win,” he said.  “Now go find where your sister and Beth have gone off to.”  Jeri Lynn stood up, and Lestrade held out two imaginary items.  “Here’s your tranquilizers and your gun.  Remember, only use them if necessary, and aim true.  The wild Jordan is not an easy beast to tame.”

                Jeri Lynn ran off down the hallway, calling for her sister.  John glanced at Kim, who was smiling fondly at Lestrade.  Lestrade, for his part, was completely oblivious.  John looked away, uncomfortable.  It looked like Jordan’s nightmare might be coming true quicker than anticipated.

                There was an armchair adjacent to the couch, where Lestrade settled down and sipped his wine.  “Sherlock still working Gregson’s case?”

                John set his glass down on the coffee table.  “Yeah.  It’s turning out to be a real difficult one.  But that’s good ‘cause at least it keeps him occupied and out of my hair.”

                Kim and Lestrade laughed.  “I remember this one case,” Lestrade said, but before he could get any further than that, there was a thump and a shriek from down the hall, followed by a tearful wailing.  John automatically sat forward, and Kim started to get up, but Lestrade waved them both down and went to see what was the matter.

                “But we were playing a _game_ ,” they heard Jordan protest over her sister’s crying.  “We weren’t ready to come out yet.”

                Whatever Lestrade said in response was too low to hear, but it was obviously effective.  When he emerged once more into the living room with the still-sobbing Jeri Lynn cradled in his arms, Jordan and another little girl followed behind looking contrite.  Jordan walked up to John and gave him her best sad-puppy look.

                “I’m sorry I was rude to you,” she said.  “I didn’t mean to ignore you after you came over to see me.”

                “It’s okay,” John told her.

                “You’re supposed to say ‘I forgive you.’”

                “Bossy,” Lestrade said in a warning tone.  Jordan pouted at him, but he stood firm, giving her a Look that John was sure must be taught in parenting class or something.

                “My teacher says when you say ‘it’s okay’ like that, you’re making it alright for me to do it again in the future.  So you’re supposed to say ‘I forgive you’ instead,” Jordan told John.

                “Oh.  Well, in that case, I forgive you,” he said, looking to Lestrade for guidance.  The older man nodded encouragingly.

                Jordan brightened.  “Wanna meet my friend Beth?”

                “Er, sure.  Why not?”

                Beth turned out to be even more talkative than Jordan.  Within five minutes, John learned that she was a month older than Jordan, had two older siblings and a dog, her favourite subject in school was maths, and her mother read John’s blog religiously.  John kept up with her as best as he could, but it must have been obvious how badly he was struggling because Lestrade quickly took pity on him and suggested the girls figure out what to order for dinner.  This caused something of an uproar when Jordan thought that as the host, she should get the final say in any disagreements, while Beth said that it was her right as guest to choose.  Luckily, the argument ended when John leaned over to Kim and half-jokingly suggested they bail on Lestrade and go get a pizza on their own.

                “Pizza,” Jordan cried.  “I want pizza, Daddy.”

                “Pizza-pizza-pizza,” Beth chimed in.

                “Oi,” Lestrade said.  “Rude, again.  Having guests over doesn’t mean you get to forget your manners.”

                “Pleeeeeease, Daddy?  Please may we have pizza?” Jordan asked.

                “Does that sound good to everyone?  Jeri?”  There was a general chorus of agreement.  Lestrade set Jeri Lynn down so he could call ahead to the pizzeria a couple blocks away.  John offered to go pick it up, but Lestrade refused to let him, claiming he needed a bit of fresh air.  John couldn’t exactly blame him; it seemed all Lestrade did these days was work and then come home to his children.  No more going drinking with his colleagues, no more popping around Baker Street for a chat with Mrs Hudson and an ill-disguised sweep of the flat for paraphernalia.

                Lestrade left long before the pizza would be ready, with strict instructions for the girls to straighten up the living room a bit while he was away.  The three of them worked diligently, occasionally getting side-tracked by crayons or Barbie clothes.

                “Makes you never want to have your own, doesn’t it?” Kim said as they watched the girls.

                John snorted.  “Tell me about it.  I mean, they seem like good kids, but they’re so…”

                “Messy?”

                “And _loud_.”

                “And argumentative.”

                “And I’ve already got Sherlock for all of that,” John said.  “Have you spent a lot of time around children?”

                “Mostly just my sister’s boy,” Kim said.  “But I’ve never really wanted any of my own.  Not that I could anymore.”  She subconsciously crossed her legs.  “But even when I could, it never really appealed to me.”

                “Is that why you and Lestrade – Sorry, that’s none of my business.”  The wine must have gone to his head quicker than he had anticipated.  No surprise, considering he wasn’t really sure what time he’d eaten lunch, or even if he had at all.

                “We dated for a long time, me and him.  But then it became apparent he really wanted kids.  We considered adoption, but in the end I just couldn’t.  So we split up and a few months later, he met and married Jenn.”  She laughed bitterly.  “I think deep down, we all knew we were heading for this.” She gestured expansively with her wine glass.  John noted distantly that it was nearly empty.  It was either time for a refill or time for them to cut back for a bit.  Kim must have been thinking along the same lines because she shook her head.  “Sorry.  I don’t mean to unload all over you.”

                “I don’t mind.  People tell me I’m a good listener.”

                “I suppose you’d have to be, to put up with Sherlock.”

                John laughed.  “Yeah, I suppose so.  You and Lestrade, then.  Are you thinking about getting back together?”

                Neither of them noticed that Jordan had stopped picking up her toys and was listening as intently as she could without appearing to do so.

                “I don’t know,” Kim said.  “If we did, it would mean a lot of compromise on both our parts.  I think we’re going to wait and see how the school year goes first, then…maybe.”  She smiled fondly.

                Jordan scooped up as many of her toys as she could carry and took them down the hallway into her room.  Beth followed, but Jeri Lynn stayed where she was, all cocooned inside the fort blankets.

                “What’s he like?  I mean, really like?  I feel as though I know him, but I don’t really know him.”  John faltered.  “Does that make any sense?”

                Kim nodded.  “He’s always been fairly private.  I mean, he’ll always let you know how he feels about something, usually pretty vocally, but when it comes to his own life, he doesn’t let a lot of people get close.  He’s…well, when he was younger he thought the world was out to get him, so he pre-emptively struck out against everyone, which made everyone turn against him, which perpetuated his idea that the world was out to get him.  He calmed down in his twenties, though.  Joined the force, settled down a bit.  Still listens to punk rock and alternative music, though.”

                “Does he really?” John asked.  He would’ve pegged Lestrade for more of a smooth jazz or classical kind of guy.  Traditional, soothing.  John grinned.

                “Yup.  I think he might even still have his leathers around here somewhere.  Not that he can still fit into them, mind.”

                John laughed, trying hard not to imagine Lestrade dressed up in leathers and riding a motorbike.  He took another sip of wine, noting his glass was just about as empty as Kim’s.

                “He’s probably one of very few people who can claim to have taken someone’s virginity twice.”

                John spewed his wine all over the coffee table, his own lap, and part of the couch.  He coughed wretchedly, glowering at Kim, who looked sheepish.  She grabbed a serviette from the side table and offered it to him.  “Sorry.  I didn’t mean to say that just as you were taking a drink.  I was just…thinking out loud.”

                “It’s fine,” John gasped, mopping up his trouser legs and the coffee table.  “You mean you and Lestrade…when you were…” He gestured vaguely, wincing.

                “When I was Karl?  Yeah.  We…I shouldn’t be telling you this.  It’s Lestrade’s business if he wants people to know.  I just assumed, what with you being Sherlock’s flatmate and all…” Kim trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

                “No, Sherlock doesn’t really talk about Lestrade.  Not about that kind of stuff anyway.  Either he’s deleted it all or he actually respects Lestrade’s privacy.”  John highly doubted the latter, but a small, niggling voice in the back of his head wondered if it weren’t true.  Sherlock respected Lestrade in ways that he never voiced out loud, but always showed themselves in his actions.

                “Deleted it?”

                “From his hard drive.”  John tapped his own head to demonstrate.  Kim still looked lost, but she nodded as though she understood, and they both let it go.  They sat in awkward silence for a while, not really knowing what to say.  The buzz from the alcohol was fading, and John felt ashamed of himself for being nosy.  Thankfully, Lestrade returned a few minutes later, and they nearly tripped over themselves to assist him, even though he didn’t really need their help.

                They all got their food and drinks (the adults switching over to lemonade, while the kids drank milk) and settled down in the living room to eat while they watched a couple of old episodes.  Normally, Jordan informed John, they would watch whatever rerun BBC was showing, but since John hadn’t seen any of the new series, they agreed to watch from the beginning with him, and maybe he would be caught up by the time the new series aired.  John hadn’t been much of a Whovian after age ten or so, so he was afraid he would be a little lost, but the new series did a good job of explaining things for new audiences while keeping it fresh for the old fans.  He found himself getting quite wrapped up in the plot of the first couple of episodes, much to his chagrin and Jordan’s delight.  Lestrade teased him for being a nerd, then admitted he was rather one himself.  He’d watched _Star Trek, Doctor Who, Red Dwarf_ …all the typical sci-fi geek shows.  It was his guilty pleasure; no one at the Yard knew.

                “I grew out of it for a while,” he said, “not so long ago.  But then the new series started up and Jordan was pretty keen on it.  Pretty soon we all got hooked.

                “Has Sherlock ever come over for _Doctor Who_ night?” John asked.

                Lestrade gave a mock shudder.  “God, no.  Could you imagine?”

                All too vividly, John was forced to admit.  He wondered how Sherlock’s case was coming along, then felt guilty for having left him alone for so long.  It would be amazing if he came back to find the flat still in one piece.  Now that he thought of it, though, he hadn’t received a single text from Sherlock the whole time.  He subtly checked his phone: it was turned on and there were no new messages.  Not even a missed call.  John tried not to look too worried as he slipped his phone back in his pocket, but Lestrade noticed anyway.   The older man frowned.




                “Everything okay?”

                “Yeah, fine,” John said.  “Probably.  He probably just got caught up in the investigation.  Probably didn’t even realise I’d left.  In fact, he’s probably still chattering away at me right now.”

                “Still,” Lestrade said, hesitantly.  “You might want to call, make sure he hasn’t blown himself up or anything.”  They both overlooked his poor choice of words, though John felt more uneasy than ever now that he had been reminded of Moriarty.  They still had no idea whether that madman was still out there, and if he knew Sherlock was on his own for the evening….

                John stood up.  “Sorry, I best be getting back.”

                “Already?” Jordan whined.

                “Yeah, okay,” Lestrade said.  “Time for the girls to get ready for bed, anyway.  Why don’t you three say goodnight to John and go get your pyjamas on?”

                Beth waved goodbye, while Jordan and Jeri Lynn each gave him a hug, then all three disappeared down the hallway.  John bid Kim and Lestrade farewell and took a cab back to Baker Street.  From the outside, everything appeared normal; John went upstairs, his trepidation lessening only slightly, until he caught sight of Sherlock, still bent over his microscope, nearly buried underneath a pile of pillows.  He didn’t even look up at John’s approach.

                “I’ve isolated the brand of pillow used, though not at which store it was bought,” he said, his voiced muffled by the microscope.

                “Please tell me you knew I’d left,” John said, exasperated.

                “Of course I knew.  You went to Lestrade’s.  You drank wine and Kim told you something that made you uneasy; presumably something about Lestrade’s sexual history.  Did she tell you he’s bisexual?  Irrelevant, either w-“

                “Oh, shut up.  So, you’ve almost cracked the case, then?”

                Sherlock gave him his most patronising look.  “Weren’t you listening just a moment ago?  Surely your memory isn’t that impaired.”

                John rolled his eyes.  “Anything you need me to do?”

                “Do something with all these damn pillows.”

                “Only if you say please.”

                Sherlock stared at him as though he had lost his mind.  John stood his ground.

                “Fine.  _Please_ do something with all these damn pillows.”  He sounded as though the word was going to break his teeth.

                “No problem,” John said.  Sherlock went back to his microscope and John looked around at all of the pillows.  It was a child’s dreamland in there.  So John did the only thing one could possibly do given the circumstances.

                He set about building the best damn pillow fort the world had ever seen.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Minor character death, brief references to rape.

Once Sherlock isolated the store the pillow came from, it was only a matter of time before he found the exact one used in the murder, and from there he managed to find the murderer using a combination of microfibers, footprints, and very specific dirt from the secret passageway.  The arrest was made, Sherlock was commended, and it was all over before the end of the workday on Monday.  Sherlock spent the rest of the evening gorging himself full of everything he could find in the kitchen, followed by a straight twenty hours of sleep.  John stayed out of his way, knowing from experience that it was better to let Sherlock get on with it than to try to interfere.

Sherlock stumbled downstairs shortly after noon on Tuesday; he smelled of stale body odour and his hair was a complete wreck, but he looked fresher and more ready to act like a normal human being than when he’d gone to sleep.  The afternoon was filled with lazy chatter about the case, a thorough recap of all the parts John had missed, and more binge eating.  John always made sure to keep the fridge and cupboards well stocked when the end of a case was drawing near.

By Tuesday evening, Sherlock was already beginning to get antsy again.  John tried distracting him with crap telly, which worked for a while.  Long enough for John to get some cleaning done around the flat and start typing up his notes on the case.  The pillow fort still stood in one corner of the living room, however.  Sherlock noticed it and became absolutely fascinated.  John asked him if he and Mycroft had ever built pillow forts of their own when they were children.

“No,” Sherlock replied, crawling into it as carefully as possible so as not to dislodge any of the pillows.  “Mycroft was never one for getting down on his hands and knees.  Not back then, anyway.”

John went back to his typing, trying to force the image of Mycroft in any sort of sexual position as far out of his mind as possible.  Around seven o’clock, he decided it might be time for some dinner, so he went to see what Sherlock could possibly be doing inside the fort; it turned out he had fallen asleep again.  John smiled and reached a hand in to jiggle Sherlock’s foot.

“Dinnertime,” he said.

“No,” Sherlock answered petulantly.  “Come join me in here.  It’s more comfortable than I expected.”

“I’d rather not,” John said.  “There’s barely enough room for one person, especially when they’ve got as long legs as you do.”

“Just for a moment,” Sherlock wheedled.

This was how Sherlock tended to be after a case: even more childish than usual, and in desperate need of coddling and comfort.  It was usually best to just humour him, so John crawled into the fort as best as he could, wondering if Sherlock’s end-of-case routine was some sort of conditioned reaction.  And if so, how had he developed it?  Lestrade?  It didn’t seem likely, given the way the two interacted during cases, but maybe the girls had something to do with it.  Maybe Sherlock’s need to be taken care of had pinged Lestrade’s daddy-sense in some way.

John lay down next to Sherlock, facing him.  He had to admit, it _was_ rather comfortable inside the fort.  Sherlock was drifting off again, and John could feel himself slipping away as well.  It was warm, what with their body heat so close together and their breath mingling just inches from their faces.  Good thing no one can see us right now, John thought.

No sooner had the words crossed his mind than the doorbell rang.

Sherlock’s eyes popped open.

“They’re hanging onto the bell for an extended several seconds,” John murmured.  “They’re in distress.”

“Probably someone familiar with us or at least confident enough to seem familiar,” Sherlock said, just as quietly.

“It’s too soon after your last case, you can’t take on another one,” John said.

“Hush.”  Sherlock was straining to listen, but any sounds from downstairs were muffled by the pillows.  Both men struggled free of the fort at the same time, sending cushions flying and tumbling everywhere.  “Children are involved,” he added, listening to the way Mrs Hudson was gushing.  They couldn’t hear the exact words, but the tone was unmistakeable.

Her voice faded, and they both knew she was retreating into her flat.  She probably sent the person up, but they did not hear any footsteps on the stairs.  They waited several moments before looking at each other in unison, frowning; this was out of the ordinary, and when something was out of the ordinary, that’s when things got interesting.

Sherlock walked over to the door, pulled it open.  No one on the landing.  John peered around his shoulder and down the stairs: there, sitting on the bottom step, was a hunched-over back that was impossible not to recognise.

It was Lestrade.

Sherlock was down the stairs and kneeling in front of Lestrade before John even fully comprehended what his eyes were seeing.  He went back inside the flat to grab his first aid kit and charged down the stairs.  Sherlock was talking to Lestrade, who was deathly pale and shaking.

“Where are the girls?” he was asking when John joined them.  John eased him out of the way and began running his hands over Lestrade’s torso and observing his face, searching for obvious signs of injury, distress, or pain.

His words were slurred when he replied, “They’re with Mrs Hudson.  I managed to hold it together until she took them, so they have no idea anything’s wrong.”

John sincerely doubted that, given how perceptive the girls had seemed on the few occasions John had been around them, but he elected not to say anything.  Instead, he sat back and said to Sherlock, “He’s definitely in shock, but I can’t find any injuries.”

Lestrade shook his head.  “’M not hurt.  It’s just…I need a moment.”  He squeezed his eyes shut and clutched the bannister like it was his only lifeline, mustering his strength.

“Help him,” John instructed Sherlock.  It was a sign of how worried he was that Sherlock actually obeyed.  He took hold of Lestrade’s arm, just under the armpit, and urged him to his feet.  John went back upstairs ahead of them, clearing the way to the couch and getting a blanket to keep Lestrade warm.  Sherlock guided Lestrade to where John pointed, then took the blanket and draped it over Lestrade’s shoulders.  He stepped back and just stood there awkwardly.

“Go make tea or something,” John snapped.  Sherlock’s… _hovering_ combined with Lestrade’s general well-being (or lack thereof at the moment) was making John uneasy.  With Sherlock out of the immediate vicinity, at least he would be able to focus more fully on his patient.

“What happened?” John asked.  “Walk me through it.”

Lestrade seemed to be getting a hold on himself.  He toyed with the blanket and gave a wry smile.  “Sherlock’s never going to let me live this down.”

“Greg,” John pressed gently.

The smile faded and his whole face crumpled into pure anguish.  “Kim was murdered last night.”

John couldn’t stop the sharp intake of breath at the words; from the kitchen came the sound of a mug being set down harder than intended.  John eased himself onto the coffee table in front of Lestrade, then hesitated, unsure of what to do.  “I’m so sorry,” he said, laying a hand decisively on Lestrade’s leg.  “What happened?”

“Last…this….last….” He shook his head, took a deep breath, and began again.  “This morning she didn’t show up to watch the girls.  They were going to go to the zoo today.  But I knew Sherlock was working a case, so I took them to the child-minder instead.”  He gave a sharp, almost involuntary tug on the blanket.  “I was worried, but figured maybe she’d had a family emergency or something and forgot to tell me.  I called her and left a message saying where the girls were if she wanted to pick them up.”

He took another steadying breath.  “At lunchtime I began to really worry.  I made a few calls, checked in with the hospitals in case she’d been in an accident.  Her sister’s her emergency contact and we don’t exactly get on, so if anything were to happen, I’d probably be the last to know.  Well, no one had heard anything, so I left off.  Went home early, saying I needed to pick my girls up.”

There was a long pause as Lestrade grouped and regrouped his thoughts, trying to figure out the best way to continue.  “Last night, as she was walking home from my place, some guys cornered her and they think probably harassed her.  Dunno, maybe thought she was a transvestite.  ‘S happened before.  Anyway, whatever happened, they didn’t like what they found, and they…she…. I got the call about an hour after I’d got home.  Sally.”  He shook his head, as though trying to shake the memories loose from his mind.  “She’d met Kim a few times at birthday parties and whatnot, so when she heard Dimmock talking about the case and remembered what I’d said about Kim not showing up, she put two and two together.  They took her purse, see.  So no ID, no mobile, no way to label her anything but Jane Doe.  But Sally called me and told me a little of what happened and would I be willing to identify the body if it was, in fact, Kim?  So I bundled the kids in the car, told them Daddy had to go back to work for just a moment, and promised we’d do something fun afterwards.  I didn’t really think it was her.  But it was.  Her face was so badly beaten…and her genitals….”

His already-pale face whitened even further, and John knew what was about to happen far too late to do anything but jump hurriedly out of the way.  Fortunately, Sherlock had been anticipating it and was ready with a large bowl just in time.  Lestrade heaved his entire stomach contents into the bowl, though to be honest, there wasn’t much.  He dry heaved several times, then spit several more, trying to get the taste out of his mouth.  John went to get him a glass of water.  The tea was in the pot, ready to be poured, but he figured it would be best to wait a little while before giving it to Lestrade.  At least until he’d finished talking about… He went back into the living room, where Sherlock was perched on the edge of the couch next to Lestrade, gently rubbing circles on his back.  It was a gesture John didn’t recognise as being part of Sherlock’s repertoire, but he simply handed over the glass, electing not to say anything that might scare off this newfound empathy.

Lestrade rinsed his mouth out and slumped back on the couch.  “I told them it was her and got out of there as quick as I could.  I told the girls we were coming to see you guys, but first they were going to have dinner with Mrs Hudson.  We came straight here.  I’m sorry, I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Nonsense,” John said gruffly, ignoring the way Sherlock was gazing worriedly at Lestrade’s face.  “We wouldn’t hear of you going to anyone else.  We’re here for you for as long as you need.”  He took the water glass and the filthy bowl into the kitchen, carefully rinsing the contents down the sink.

“I’m alright, Sunshine,” he heard Lestrade say from the living room.

“No, you’re not,” came Sherlock’s deep voice.  “Do they know who did it yet?”

“No.  There were some semen samples, but they were all mixed together and combined with her blood.  It’ll take a while to process.”

John went to the doorway of the kitchen and leaned against the frame, arms crossed.

“Where did it happen?” Sherlock asked.

“About four blocks east of my flat.  You know the little alley next to the bakery-“

Before he could even finish the sentence, Sherlock was out the door without even grabbing a jacket.  John and Lestrade stared after him, wide-eyed.

“He hasn’t gone down to the crime scene, surely,” Lestrade said.

“I don’t know,” John admitted.  “Maybe.”  He ducked back into the kitchen, fixed tea for himself and Lestrade, and brought it out.  Lestrade accepted his mug gratefully and took a small sip.  His hands were trembling so hard he nearly sloshed the warm liquid all over himself.  John could feel second-hand embarrassment colouring his face and decided to give Lestrade a little bit of privacy to get himself together.  “I’m going to go check on Mrs Hudson and say hello to the girls.  Do you want me to see if they can stay the night with her?”

Lestrade nodded distractedly.  John wasn’t sure he’d even heard what he had said.  To be fair, he couldn’t begin to imagine what Lestrade must be going through right now.  Kim had been his best friend, his lover, his ally in a mad, hurtful world.  He wondered what it would feel like to lose someone to whom he had been that close.  Had he ever had someone like that?  Maybe Sherlock, except for the lovers bit.  Losing Sherlock and then having to identify his beaten and raped body…John sped up his descent down the stairs, trying to outrun his thoughts.  No, it didn’t even bear thinking about.  Suddenly, John could completely understand Lestrade’s current state of mind.  If John were in his position, shock would be the least of his worries.

The girls were sitting at the kitchen table, in the exact same spots they had been that morning when Mrs Hudson had fixed them breakfast.  Now, she was pulling together a hurried dinner of sandwiches and fresh vegetables.  The all looked at him expectantly as he entered.

He walked over to Mrs Hudson and spoke in a low voice, “Do you have a spare bed where the girls can sleep tonight?  It’d be best if Lestrade doesn’t try to drive until tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Mrs Hudson said, her eyes wide with alarm.  “They can use the spare bedroom.  It’s where my grandson stays when he’s over.  That is, as long as they don’t mind sharing a bed.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he assured her.  Now for the tough part. He put on what he hoped was a comforting smile and turned to the girls.  “I’m afraid your dad’s come down with a bit of an illness.  You’ll be staying here tonight with Mrs Hudson to make sure you don’t get it.”

“Why did Daddy have to go in to work if he was feeling ill?” Jordan demanded.  “Why did he bring us here and say we were going to play with you and Sherlock, but now we have to stay with Mrs Hudson?”

John faltered.  “He…just came down with it.  Just now.  And he doesn’t want you getting sick.  I’m his doctor, so I’m taking care of him, and Sherlock’s gone out for the evening.  Working on a case, I think.”

The girls continued to stare at him disbelievingly.  John wracked his brain, trying to come up with a decent reason Lestrade would go to the Yard if he wasn’t feeling well.  “He went into work to…leave instructions for Sally – er, Ms Donovan? – while he’s away sick.”

It was apparent neither child trusted his story, but he was spared any further rambling explanations when Mrs Hudson came over with two plates for the girls.  She set them down, saying, “Here we are, a nice big dinner for two growing girls.  I bet you’re hungry.”

John used the momentary distraction to escape Jordan’s accusatory stare.  He felt bad about lying to her, he really did.  But what else was he supposed to do, given the circumstances?  This sort of thing was best left to Lestrade to explain.

Out in the stairwell, John paused.  He didn’t want to go back upstairs to an emotional Lestrade, but nor could he go back into Mrs Hudson’s and face the girls.  Instead, he pulled out his mobile and shot off a quick text to Sherlock.  _Where are you? –JW_

The response was a long time coming.  John sat down on one of the steps, well knowing that his back was going to hate him later and not giving one ounce of a rat’s arse.  After five minutes that stretched into eternity, he sent a second text.  _Want some help? –JW_

It was another eight minutes before John’s phone finally dinged.  _Stay with Lestrade.  And don’t let him near the alcohol –SH_

John hadn’t considered that.  He knew that drink was Lestrade’s comfort of choice when he was having a bad day, but no one really considered him an alcoholic.  Still, he had two well defined stages of drunkenness, which John had found out first hand before someone took pity on him and warned him not to let Lestrade drink so much.  The first stage was flirty/handsiness.  He had absolutely no intention of ever cheating on his wife, of course, but after a couple of drinks, most people around him, regardless of age, gender, or marital status would be treated to at least a cursory grope.  The first time it had happened to John, Lestrade had given him a cheeky grin and explained that his hands had minds of their own.  Then groped him again.  John wasn’t sure if someone had spoken to him or what, but after that, he was miraculously exempt from Lestrade’s wandering hands.  Poor Sally, though…her breasts were a particular fascination for a drunken Lestrade.

The second stage was a bitter moroseness to rival even John’s when he had first come back from Afghanistan.  John had only seen him at this stage once, when he had gotten a bit carried away at some Sergeant’s birthday celebration.  John had only been invited because he happened to be in the room at the time.  Sherlock had been invited as well, but he declined.  Loudly and with as much disdain as possible.  In any case, John had been regretting his decision not to follow Sherlock home, so he kept himself supplied with a steady stream of bitters, and because misery loves company, he continued to shove drinks into Lestrade’s hand, who drank them all with a relaxed absentmindedness that got him a lot drunker a lot faster than anyone had anticipated.  He’d ended up alone at one end of the bar, snarling at anyone who came near him.  No one was sure what exactly had prompted this fit of melancholy, so they all gave up on trying to coax him back into the handsy stage and left him there.  All except John, who felt guilty for getting him into such a state in the first place.

John himself was something of an angry drunk.  Not that he would go out looking for fights or anything, but things that annoyed him normally would infuriate him when he’d had one too many.

He twisted his body to look up the stairs, as though he could see Lestrade through the door.  He was up there all alone, completely adrift with nothing to cling to.  John felt old, exhausted.  How many times had he comforted a fellow soldier when his best mate had been killed?  But that was in the army; this didn’t even come close to comparable.  What could he say to a man who had lost his wife and best mate in a matter of a couple of weeks?  A man who could barely balance his work and his family as it was, and now what?  He stood up and climbed the stairs.  This was Lestrade, after all.  Maybe he didn’t need to say anything.  All he had to do was _be there_ for him.

Lestrade had finished his tea and was sitting on the edge of the couch, looking like he had no idea what to do now.   His eyes were rather red, his nose puffy and raw-looking.  If he sniffled a bit more than he should have, John pretended not to notice.  The man’s life was in tatters around him, of course he was entitled to a few silent, manly tears. John wouldn’t mention it, unless Lestrade brought it up first.




When he noticed John’s return, Lestrade grimaced tiredly, though maybe it was supposed to be a smile.  Either way, John arranged his mouth into something of an answering expression and took Lestrade’s mug into the kitchen.  He left it in the sink, not even bothering to rinse it.

“Mrs Hudson’s glad to have the girls sleep over,” he said.  “You can kip out on the sofa or I bet you could even take Sherlock’s bed.  He probably wouldn’t notice.”

“Appreciate it,” Lestrade grunted.  He looked more tired than John had ever seen him, even in the middle of the toughest case.

John settled into his chair, considered turning on the telly for a bit of noise, then decided against it.  “What was she like?” he asked suddenly, surprising himself.  “You know, back when…” He faltered.

“When she was a he?” Lestrade finished with a twisted smile.

“When she was in school,” John amended sheepishly.

Lestrade shrugged.  “A lot like she was now, except smaller.  She was always so small.”  He frowned, pondering.  “Why is it when she had a male body, she always seemed tiny, but once she became female, she seemed so much larger?  I mean, I suppose it’s because she was all grown up and everything, but…” He shook his head.

“Maybe it’s because in school she needed protecting?” John suggested.

“Or maybe it’s just society’s ideas of masculinity and femininity playing tricks on the mind,” Lestrade countered darkly.

“She told me you got up to a lot of mischief in school, but you never got in trouble because you were a bit of a charmer.”

Lestrade laughed, and there was nothing bitter or wry or dark about it.  It was an honest, full laugh.  John grinned, proud of himself.  “I guess you could say that,” Lestrade said.  “When it came to the cooks and groundskeepers, anyway.  The teachers didn’t put up with my guff for a second.  There was this one professor, Old Smelly we called him on account of he had some rather strange ideas about personal hygiene.  Anyway, he was absolutely the worst.  He was always yelling at me for something or other, even when I didn’t do it.  I ‘had a mean look about’ me, that apparently meant I was always doing something wrong.”

“Well, you showed him, didn’t you?” John nodded in a vague way that was somehow meant to indicate Lestrade’s profession.

Lestrade snorted and shook his head.  “Yeah, eventually.  I wasn’t exactly a model citizen in my twenties.  Nothing as bad as Sherlock, mind, but I wasn’t ready to settle down and conform yet.”

“You and Kim stayed friends the whole time?” John asked.  He was mostly just trying to keep Lestrade talking, but part of him was genuinely curious.  Lestrade loved telling anecdotes about his friends and colleagues, and this was a much healthier way to let him deal with his grief than letting him loose on a bottle or leaving him alone with his thoughts.  Not that John thought he would do anything stupid, what with his children just down stairs, but there was no point in letting him wallow in his sorrow when John could provide at least a bit of relief.

“We didn’t, actually,” Lestrade was saying.  “We lost contact for a good…ten years or so?  Nine, ten, something like that.  Either way, the next time we saw each other, she was her ‘rightful’ self, she said.  The outside finally matched the inside.  I didn’t really understand it at first, but I tried to.  I got all these books about transgender surgery and everything it entails.”  His voice faded away, lost in memories.

John waited patiently, not wanting to rush him.  Still, he couldn’t help his instinctual glance at the clock after a couple minutes went by with Lestrade being completely silent.  Lestrade’s eyes followed his, and a flash of guilt crossed his face. “It’s past the girls’ bedtime,” he said.  “I’d better go tuck them in.  Think Sherlock’ll mind if I use a couple of his vests for nightshirts for them?”

“No, he won’t care,” John replied.  So much for getting him to talk things out.

Lestrade disappeared into Sherlock’s room and returned less than five minutes later bearing one vest.  John wasn’t altogether surprised that he only found one; Sherlock wasn’t keen on vests, plus his room was in a constant state of chaos.

“I think he’s got another one in the washing,” John told him.

“Hm?”  Lestrade glanced at the vest in his hand.  “No, actually I was gonna ask if Jeri can use one of yours.  I think Sherlock’s might eat her alive.”

“Sure.”

“I’m going to head down.  Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” John said.  “I’ll bring it down.”

“Cheers.”  Lestrade smiled gratefully.  John went upstairs to his room and hunted down a vest that was slightly too small for him and therefore had been shoved to the back of his closet rather than thrown out or given to charity.  It was still going to swamp the little girl, but Sherlock was rather broader in the shoulder than John, so at least she wouldn’t look _quite_ as ridiculous.

He went downstairs and entered Mrs Hudson’s flat without knocking.  Once upon a time, he would have insisted on that simple aspect of common decency, but living with Sherlock had disabused him of any such inclinations, especially where Mrs Hudson was concerned.  The woman in question was currently curled up on her sofa, watching the telly.  Some game show was on.  John held up the shirt by way of explanation.  She sat up, clucking sympathetically.

“He was in a bad way earlier, but whatever you did for him seems to have worked,” she said.  “He’s a bit more cheery now.  I thought he was going to fall over dead when he first got here.”

“I didn’t do anything,” John said.  “I just listened.”

“Sometimes that’s all it takes.”

John nodded and went to the spare bedroom.  It was a rather frilly affair, with a bed skirt, matching furniture, and a general Dusty Rose colour scheme.  There were pictures of trains and aeroplanes hanging on the wall in an effort to “masculinise” the place for Mrs Hudson’s grandson, but there was no mistaking the fact that here lived a woman who wanted nothing more than a little granddaughter to dote upon.  Not that she didn’t love little Michael.  He just wasn’t as good at playing all the little girl games Mrs Hudson remembered from her childhood.  And he had a nasty habit of sticking his hand down his pants.

Jordan was sitting up in the bed, blankets already tucked around her lower half, while Lestrade sat next to her on the edge of the bed, Jeri Lynn on his lap.

“Does it really matter whose shirt you wear?” Lestrade was asking Jeri Lynn.

“Yes,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because, um, because Sherlock’s really smart and I’m like him so I should wear his shirt.”

“Clothes don’t make a person smart, Jeri Lynn,” Jordan told her.

“Besides that, John’s also very smart.  Smarter than Sherlock in some ways,” Lestrade added.

“I dunno about that,” John said, coming fully into the room, “but at least my vest isn’t as smelly as Sherlock’s.”

Lestrade leaned over and sniffed Jordan comically.  “Whew,” he gasped.  “You smell like a _boy_.”

Jordan giggled but Jeri Lynn was far from appeased.  “But John’s a boy, too.”

“Actually, come to think of it, I’m pretty sure the last person who wore this shirt was my girlfriend.”  The words were out of John’s mouth before he realised the implications.  Lestrade raised an eyebrow as John blushed.

Luckily, the girls were too young to catch on.  “Daddy,” Jeri Lynn whined.  “I don’t _want_ to wear it.”

“Well, sleep naked then.”  It was as close to angry as John had ever heard him speak to his children, and John was momentarily taken aback.  “Just don’t come crying to me when the sheets make you itchy or you get too cold.  You can either take John’s shirt and say thank you for being so kind, or you can do without and suffer for it.  Daddy’s not in the mood for your smart lip tonight.”

Jeri Lynn considered her options, considered whether or not it was worth risking her father’s full wrath should she put up any more of a fuss.  She must have decided it was not, because she hopped off Lestrade’s lap and held out a chubby hand for the shirt.  John handed it to her.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, not looking him in the eye.

“Go change in the loo.  And brush your teeth with your finger like Mrs Hudson showed you,” Lestrade instructed.  “And don’t forget to go potty,” he called after her as she disappeared down the hallway.

“Daddy, don’t be so mean to Jeri Lynn,” Jordan pleaded.  “She doesn’t like sleeping in new places.”

“I know, baby,” Lestrade murmured, smoothing her hair down.  His hand was almost bigger than her whole face.  “It’s been a long day.  I’m sorry.”

There was a heavy silence.  Jordan asked tentatively, “Did something happen to Auntie Kim?  Is that why she didn’t show up today?”

“Don’t worry about it.  We’ll talk in the morning, okay?”

“Are you really sick like John said?”

“No,” Lestrade said.  “I’m not sick-sick.  But I’m not feeling very well, either.  In here.”  He pointed to his heart.

“Is Auntie Kim dead?”

Lestrade closed his eyes.  “I said we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

Jordan didn’t say anything more, but her lower lip began to tremble as she fought back tears.  The tears won.  Lestrade pulled her onto his lap, completely disrupting the blankets.  She buried her face in his chest, sobbing.  He rocked back and forth, making soothing sounds and rubbing her back.  Jeri Lynn came back, ducking around John and stopping dead at the sight of her sister and dad.  Without really knowing why, she began to cry as well; she figured if Jordan was sad, she should be sad as well.  She climbed onto the bed next to them, and Lestrade wrapped one arm around her.  John slipped out while no one was paying any attention to him.  Mrs Hudson was still in the living room, but she was peering anxiously down the hallway, one hand clutched at the base of her throat.

“Is everything alright?” she asked John.

“It will be,” he assured her, though he himself wasn’t so sure about that.  They continued to listen as the crying subsided to be replaced by a low, rumbling voice singing softly.  John was torn between shock and amusement when he realised it was singing the chorus to “Paradise City.”

“When he comes out, tell him I’m upstairs waiting for him,” John said.  Mrs Hudson nodded, too choked up to say anything.  John gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek goodnight and went upstairs to wait apprehensively for Lestrade.  If he thought the man had been emotional before, he was fairly certain Lestrade would be even more so now.

He wasn’t wrong.  When Lestrade returned a quarter of an hour later, he looked almost as bad as he had at the beginning of the evening; he was pale and shaky again, and looked like he was on the verge of collapse.  John jumped up to guide him to the sofa, but he was less compliant this time.  “I think I need to go to bed,” he muttered hazily.

“Can I get you anything?” John asked, worried.  It wasn’t even ten o’clock yet.  Maybe if he got Lestrade talking again, he could get him back to where he’d been half an hour ago.  His regression to this dissociative state of mind was really starting to frighten John.

“No, I’ll be alright,” Lestrade said.

John hesitated for just a moment before coming to a decision.  He wrapped both arms around Lestrade, pulling him close for a tight, reassuring hug.  Never mind that they weren’t close friends, never mind that the height difference made it slightly awkward, never mind that Lestrade probably wanted nothing more than to go into Sherlock’s room and grieve on his own.  John held him in a tight grip, not letting him get away.  After a moment, Lestrade gave in, leaning heavily onto John and hugging him back even tighter.  He drew in sharp breaths through clenched teeth, giving in to the tears that had been threatening to fall all night.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

_From the private diary of Jordan Ann Lestrade (DO NOT READ!)_

_Daddy is sad.  Auntie Kim is dead.  I am sad.  I want Daddy to be happy agin._

_I miss Mummy._

_I sayed I did not want Kim to be my new Mummy but I did not want her to be dead._

_School starts necs week.  I want to see my friends agin._

_\---  
_

The next morning, John awoke to the smell of frying bacon.  For a moment, he was confused before the events of the previous night came rushing back.  He got up and took a quick shower before heading downstairs.  Lestrade had previously seen him covered in mud and sweaty after nearly fifty-six hours without sleep, yet coming downstairs all sleep-mussed and grungy somehow seemed inappropriate.  On the way down, he popped his head into Sherlock’s room, just to take a look.  The bed was neatly made and there was no sign of Sherlock beneath the covers.  Same in the living room.  He had probably never made it home last night.

“’Morning, John,” Lestrade said as he came into the kitchen.  He wore a pair of Sherlock’s pyjama trousers, stretched out around his belly, and a dressing gown to cover his chest.  He was barefoot, which for some reason struck John as strange.  He was standing at the stove, frying up some bacon.  Judging by the bread Jordan was buttering for him, bacon butties were on the menu for breakfast.  John’s stomach growled loudly.  After Lestrade had gone to bed, John had grabbed a quick bite to eat, but nothing with much substance, and now his body hated him for it.  “Hungry?” Lestrade asked.

“Smells delicious.  Not sure my waistline can handle it, though.  I might just have some cereal instead,” John said.  It really did smell good, though.  And where had Lestrade even managed to dig out some bacon, anyway?

“Suit yourself,” Lestrade said.  John surreptitiously gave him a once over while he prepared his cereal; he looked tired, bags under his eyes and a sad set to his mouth, but overall he looked much better than he had last night.  There was colour back in his cheeks and his stance was determined, almost defiant.

“Did you sleep alright?” John asked him, taking his cereal over to the table.  There wasn’t much room for all of them to sit down together.  “Do you guys mind if we all eat in the living room?”

“Sure, no problem,” Lestrade said, eyeing the table with misgiving.  “Probably for the best anyway.”  He turned back to the bacon, which was almost done.  “I slept about as well as could be expected.”

John grimaced.  He went downstairs to grab the newspaper before settling into his armchair, bowl of cereal balanced on one leg, paper on the other.  A couple minutes later, the girls appeared, each bearing a plate that they set on the coffee table.  They themselves sat on the floor and dug in happily.  Lestrade came a moment later with two glasses of milk and a plate of his own.  He put the glasses down in front of the girls, then settled in Sherlock’s chair.  If either of the adults noticed how they were both avoiding the sofa like it was contaminated by some sort of infectious disease, neither of them mentioned it.

“Where’s Sherlock?” Jeri Lynn asked through a mouthful of bread and bacon.

John glanced at Lestrade, who shrugged.  Before either of them could say anything, though, there was a loud _bang_ as the downstairs door was thrown open and a pair of feet thundered up the stairs.  The girls stared, wide eyed, as Sherlock burst into the flat, all wild hair and manic energy, toting a bulging plastic bag that he set down by the door.

“Impeccable timing, as always, Sherlock,” Lestrade grunted, only half amused.  John nearly snorted cereal out his nose.

“Did you remember to close the door behind you?” John asked, hating how much he sounded like Sherlock’s father.  Sherlock poked his head back into the stairwell to double check.

"Yes, I did."  He came back in and began pacing around the living room.  They all watched him, waiting for some sort of explanation, but none seemed forthcoming just yet.  After several long seconds, he noticed them staring...or at least noticed them not eating.  He stopped dead, then abruptly changged direction and headed into the kitchen.  They could hear him slamming cupboard doors and rattling the cutlery drawer.  He came back a moment later, stuffing a whole piece of bread covered in butter and jam into his mouth.

“Er, productive night, then?” John asked.

Sherlock chewed viciously and swallowed before answering.  “I found them.”

There was only one thing he could mean by that: the people who murdered Kim.  John and Lestrade stared at him, amazed, while the girls remained confused.

“Found who?” Jordan asked.  “Daddy, who did he find?”

“The bad men who killed Auntie Kim, darling,” Lestrade told her.

“Did you call Gregson?” John asked.

Sherlock went over to him and absentmindedly picked a couple of soggy flakes out of John’s bowl with his fingers.  John set the rest of it down on the coffee table, suddenly no longer hungry.  “No,” Sherlock said.  “But they should be turning themselves in, oh, right about now.”

“What did you do?” Lestrade demanded sharply.

“Nothing you wouldn’t have done if you’d gotten to them first.”  There was something dangerous in his eyes that said whatever it was hadn’t been pleasant.  And yet, John thought, he was probably telling the truth; Lestrade was mostly easy-going, but when it came to protecting and looking out for the people he loved, he could get a little dangerous himself.  “They’ll be begging Gregson for the mercy of the law any minute now, and I have advised him not to give it to them.”

“Who were they?”  Lestrade’s voice was shaky, but he held firm.  John shot him what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

“Just some local drunk ruffians.  Three of them.  They were so sauced they didn’t even realise they had killed her.”  He scoffed.  “It wasn’t even difficult to hunt them down; they made absolutely no effort to cover their tracks.  Your people would have found them eventually, Lestrade, but why wait for them to pull their heads out of their-“

“Sherlock,” John interrupted sternly, nodding subtly at Lestrade, whose head was bowed.

Jordan got up and climbed onto his chair behind him, hugging his back.  “Daddy, this is good, right?”

He straightened up and pulled her around to hug her properly.  “Yes, this is very good.  It means three bad men are going to jail for what they did to our Kimmy.”  He placed a kiss on her forehead.  “If you’re done with breakfast, go put the dishes in the sink and wash your hands.  We’ll go home so we can get changed into clean clothes, eh?”

“Wait,” Sherlock said, moving so quickly that he resembled a drunken giraffe on stilts.  He snatched the plastic bag from beside the doorway.  “I’ve taken the liberty…”  He thrust it at Lestrade, who peered inside.

“You broke into our flat to steal some clothes?”

John frowned, trying to work out Sherlock’s endgame, but came up with nothing.

“I knew you’d want to leave as soon as possible, and once you were gone, I wouldn’t be able to get you to come back.  We still have some things to discuss.”

“You do?” John asked at the same time Lestrade said, “Like what?”

Sherlock rattled the bag at him.  “Get changed and we will talk.”

Lestrade took the bag warily.  “May I…?”

“You know where the shower is.  You may use John’s shampoo.”

John spluttered.  Lestrade shot him an apologetic, slightly pleading look.  “Yeah, alright,” John said.  “But you can use Sherlock’s soap.  Extra towels are in the linen cupboard under the stairs.”

Lestrade pulled the girls’ clothes out of the bag, telling them to use Sherlock’s room to get changed when they’d finished eating.

“What are you doing?” John asked Sherlock when Lestrade had left the room, and Jordan and Jeri Lynn were bickering over who should get changed first.  Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa and did not answer.

“I need my violin,” was all he would say, steepling his fingers together under his chin.

“No, you need to tell me what you’re plotting so I can tell you how badly Lestrade is going to want to rip your throat out,” John countered.  “Did you really break into his flat?”

“I have a key.”

“Only ‘cause you kept picking our lock whenever you wanted to talk to Daddy,” Jordan piped up.  She and Jeri Lynn seemed to have settled their squabble by deciding neither of them wanted to get dressed at all.

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock said.  “Your father is going to be cross if he comes down and sees you’ve disobeyed him.  Go get dressed.”

“Make Jeri go first,” Jordan whined.

Sherlock was disinclined to do any such thing.  He shrugged as if to say “What do I care?”

“Go on,” John said to Jordan.  You don’t want to upset your dad, do you?  If you both go at the same time, neither of you will have to go first.”

“Fine,” Jordan snapped.  “Come on, Jeri Lynn.”

“No,” Jeri Lynn said, curling up in a ball and shaking her head.

“Come _on_.  You’re gonna get a spanking.”

“I don’t like that shirt.”

“Yes, you do.”  Jordan reached over and pinched her sister’s arm hard, twisting the skin to cause maximum pain.  Jeri Lynn screamed and slapped Jordan as hard as she could.  John jumped up and grabbed Jeri Lynn away from her sister’s flailing retaliation.  Jeri Lynn screamed again at the contact.  From upstairs the sound of running water became louder and Lestrade’s voice boomed from the bathroom.

“What the hell is going on down there?”

“Nothing,” John shouted over Jeri Lynn’s pained sobs.  “We’ve got it under control.”

“Don’t make me come down there, girls,” Lestrade said, then the sound of the shower became muffled once more.

Sherlock didn’t move an inch.

“Hush,” John told Jeri Lynn.  “Be quiet, you’re fine.”

Jordan leaped up and tugged John’s arm, nearly causing him to drop Jeri Lynn.  “She doesn’t like you holding her.  She doesn’t like when people touch her, remember?” she cried.

John tried to push Jordan away and readjust Jeri in his arms at the same time, which didn’t work out too well.  “Will you help me?” he snarled at Sherlock.

“Just put her down,” Sherlock said, not even opening his eyes.

John put Jeri Lynn down on the armchair, where she curled up even tighter and began to rock back and forth.  Every instinct in his body told him to either pick her up and comfort her to get her to stop crying or else just run away and let someone else deal with it.  How exactly does a person comfort a child who doesn’t like to be touched?  Fortunately, Lestrade showed up to take over, his hair still dripping wet and a damp patch spreading across the back of his shirt indicating that he had dressed before he’d dried off completely.  He picked Jeri Lynn up, carried her down the hallway to Sherlock’s room, and came back a moment later.  It was ominously silent now.

He turned his attention on Jordan, who shied away guiltily.  “What happened?  And you better have a good excuse for not being dressed.”

Slowly, like an interrogator at a torture device, he managed to extract the full story from Jordan.  At the end, when she finally told him about Jeri Lynn not listening to her and Jordan pinching her for it, he sighed and ran a hand down his face.

“I know you’re stressed,” he said, “and probably didn’t sleep well last night, right?”

“Yes,” Jordan hiccoughed.

“Go sit in the kitchen while I talk to Sherlock.  Don’t mess with anything; you’re on time out.”

Jordan escaped, apparently relieved at having avoided a spanking or any other sort of physical retribution.  Frankly, Lestrade seemed more the type to use it as a threat that he never followed through on, anyway. 

“Well?” Lestrade said to Sherlock.  “What was so important that you’re holding us hostage here with clothes?”

Sherlock, who had been completely immobile during the ordeal, suddenly sat up and swung his legs off the couch, staring straight into Lestrade’s eyes.  “It’s about what you’re going to do now that you don’t have a babysitter at your beck and call.”

“School starts next week, so it won’t really be a problem,” Lestrade said.

“Ah, except that with school comes all of those after-class activities and functions that you will have to attend and might not be able to because of work.  Police work is only nine-to-five in theory,” Sherlock replied.  “You won’t be able to balance it all.”

Lestrade leaned one hip against John’s desk.  “I’ll do what’s best for my children.”

“It won’t work.”

“And you have some sort of solution?” Lestrade snapped.

“Yes.  You move into 221C.”

There was a heavy silence.

“I’m sorry, I must have misheard you,” Lestrade said.

“You certainly did not.  You will move into 221C.”

“Baker Street?”

“Yes.  Come now, Lestrade.  I know you’re really not this stupid.”

“He’s not the only one having trouble with this, Sherlock,” John piped up.  “You want Lestrade to move in downstairs?”

“Yes.”

John and Lestrade exchanged glances.

Sherlock sighed, aggravated.  “I’ve been through every scenario, and your options are limited.”  He stood up and began pacing around the living room once more.  “The more time you devote to your children’s needs, the less time you will be able to spend at work.  You will be bypassed for the promotions you deserve and you will not be making as much money as you were.  You’ll be forced to move out of your current flat and into a worse neighbourhood, which will be detrimental to the girls’ wellbeing.

“Of course, you could always hire a babysitter to help out or even a nanny, and that way you can continue to work your usual hours, but now all of your extra income will be going to that person, and you still will not be able to afford to keep your flat.  In an effort to save money and prevent your children from growing up in an undesirable neighbourhood, obviously you will move back home to the West Country and leave London for good.”

More silence.  Lestrade nodded.

“It’d occurred to me, yes, to go back home and live near my sister and mother.  They would love to see the girls more often and they’d be more than willing to help out.  I could get a decent job with the local force, easy.”

“You can’t leave Scotland Yard,” John said, startled.  The idea of the Yard without Lestrade was like Sherlock without his eyesight: useless, tedious, and extremely dull.

“I have to do whatever’s best for my children,” Lestrade countered.

“But if you moved into 221C, you wouldn’t have to leave Scotland Yard,” Sherlock said.

Lestrade ran his hands over his face.  “I don’t think you thought this all the way through.  What, exactly, are you suggesting?  That you’ll be my live-in babysitter?”

“Of course not.  I want to help you raise them.  I will help see that Jeri Lynn gets a proper education and grows up to fulfil her greatest potential.  She is too smart for an ordinary state school, and on your own you would not be able to afford a public school.”

“No.  I’m going to stop you right there.  I’m not going to let you pay for Jeri Lynn to go to a public school.  And what about Jordan?  You can’t dote on one of them and completely ignore the other,” Lestrade said.  “Are you even aware what it takes to raise two girls?  It’s about more than just about education.”

“I will assist Jordan in any ways necessary, of course.”  Though even John could tell the thought hadn’t occurred to him.

“Why are you so hell-bent on this?  If I leave London, it’s not like you don’t have other options.  Dimmock and Gregson would be more than happy to give you cases.”

“It’s not the cases I’m worried about losing,” Sherlock snapped, frustrated.

Lestrade didn’t say anything for several long moments.  Then, “I’m sorry.  I can’t trust you with this much responsibility.  You want to help me raise my children?  What happens when I need you to help me with a case?”

“Mrs Hudson would be more than happy to babysit,” Sherlock said.

“Have you already discussed this with her, then?”

Sherlock scoffed.  “Of course not, but she adores the girls.  Of course she’d be happy to take them from time to time.”

“And what about John?  Did you even consider him?  You do realise this is going to affect him as well, don’t you?”

Sherlock glanced at John, hesitant for the first time since his insane proposition.  John held his hands up in surrender.  “I’m not getting in the middle of this.  Though, he’s right, this is going to affect me either way.  It would’ve been nice if you’d at least made a passing attempt at involving me.”

“Why can’t you move in with us?” Lestrade asked Sherlock.  “If you’re so determined to make this work?”

Sherlock stared at him as though he’d gone insane.  John’s heart skipped a beat; Sherlock leave Baker Street?  First of all, John would never be able to afford living here on his own.  Second of all, would that be the end of his partnership with Sherlock?  Would he be forced out of the picture?  He couldn’t imagine his life without Sherlock anymore.  It all seemed so…dull.

Lestrade must have seen the panic in his eyes because he sighed.  “Fine, forget I even suggested it.  I’m not trying to butt in between you two.  But it would make things much easier.”  He began ticking things off his fingers. “Jordan would have to transfer schools, she wouldn’t be able to see her old friends as much, Jeri Lynn can barely handle when we change her routine even slightly.  You think she’s going to like moving flats, even if it means living closer to you?  What about when the girls get older?  You never had a sister and I’m sure you never considered the thought of raising a teenage girl before.  What happens the first time Jordan brings a boy over?  Or decides she likes girls or wants to get a tattoo or piercing?”

Sherlock made a sound of incoherent frustration.  “There’s still _time_ to figure all that out later.”

“This isn’t a three week experiment, Sherlock,” Lestrade said.  “This is a life-long commitment.  And if you’re not ready for that, you shouldn’t have even considered talking to me about this.  What did you do?  Freak out that I might be leaving and think up the stupidest solution possible?  And not talk it over with anyone?”

There was another pause in which Sherlock refused to look Lestrade in the eye.  Lestrade frowned.  “Who did you talk to?”

“Mycroft agreed with me that whatever steps were necessary to keep you in London would be well worth the sacrifices.  He’s already found a good school for Jeri-“

“No,” Lestrade yelled, startling John.  “Absolutely not.  Your _brother_ thinks this is a good idea?  That, more than anything, tells me saying yes would be a very bad idea.”  He and Sherlock stared at each other, clearly at an impasse.

“I’m sorry, but…what does Mycroft care whether or not you stay?” John asked, trying to break the tense silence that had arisen.

Sherlock ended his staring contest with Lestrade and looked away from both of them, his face turning red with…was that shame?  “It has to do with my less than savoury past.”

“Basically, Mycroft’s worried that without me, Sherlock’s going to go back to using drugs,” Lestrade said.  “Which is a load of bollocks.”

“Is it?” Sherlock challenged.  His eyes lit up at the discovery of a new tactic.

“Oh, don’t give me that.  We both know you wouldn’t,” Lestrade said.  He snatched up the girls’ clothes that had been abandoned on the floor and took them to the kitchen.  “Go get dressed, and make your sister get dressed to,” he told Jordan.

She probably heard every single word, John realised.  His suspicions were confirmed when Jordan came meekly out of the kitchen and headed for the hallway that led to Sherlock’s room.  Halfway there, she stopped and asked her father,  “Are we really going to move near Gran?”

“I don’t know yet, sweetie,” Lestrade said.  He sounded calm, but his eyes were screaming with an unspoken desperation.  Here was a man who had to make a difficult decision in a short amount of time, and he was still grieving the loss of the two most important people in his life.  Jordan was unsatisfied with his answer but unwilling to risk his wrath a second time this morning.  She disappeared down the hallway.

The three men were silent, none really willing to look at each other.  Lestrade was trying to sort through his thoughts, while Sherlock was desperately trying to come up with a more convincing argument.  John was just trying to look at the situation from every angle possible.

“Moriarty,” he said at last.

Lestrade and Sherlock both glanced at him.  “What about him?” Lestrade asked warily.

“If you moved downstairs, your girls would become the perfect target for him.  Not,” he hastened to assure Sherlock, “that I’m against the whole thing.  It’s just something no one mentioned before.  He’s already proved he’s not above using children in his little ‘game.’  And what better way to burn the heart out of you than to go after two little girls you’re obviously fond of.”

“I would protect them,” Sherlock said.  “With my own life, if necessary.”

“It’s not a question of would you,” Lestrade said, “but a question of could you?"

No one said anything else until the girls reappeared, fully dressed and looking like they were on the verge of emotional collapse. What a picture we all must make, John thought.  Even the girls were subdued as they said goodbye to Sherlock and John, giving the customary hugs and kisses without any enthusiasm.  No one teased Lestrade into giving either man a hug or a kiss, they simply waved farewell and trudged downstairs.  Sherlock refused to meet John's eye after they left.  He threw himself on the couch in his classic sulking pose.

“It’s probably for the best,” John tried.

“Spare me your trite consolation, John,” Sherlock said.  He turned over so that he was facing the back of the couch, his knees drawn up to his chest to allow his long body to fit comfortably.

“You actually care for them, don’t you?” John said with wonder.  “All three of them.”  It had occurred to him before that Sherlock was attached to Lestrade in ways he hadn’t thought possible for the likes of Sherlock Holmes, but here he was, faced with incontrovertible proof.  It was a little overwhelming.

Sherlock didn’t say anything more, so John retreated into his bedroom.  There was nothing to do there, and John’s mind was too jittery to concentrate on reading.  After an hour, he made his way back into the living room; Sherlock hadn’t moved, but nor had he fallen asleep.  John flipped on the telly, careful to keep the volume low.  Not that it made a difference.  He could probably drop a brick on Sherlock right now and the most reaction he’d get _might_ be a glare.

Around one, he half-heartedly considered getting some food, then decided it wasn’t worth the effort.  He started clearing up the pillows that had taken over the majority of the living room.  He stacked them neatly in a corner until he decided what to do with them.  Probably bag them up and donate them, unless Sherlock needed them for something else.  For added fun, he organised them by size, fabric, and colour.  He was just finishing up with the blue ones when his phone dinged, alerting him to a new text message.  Sherlock finally stirred, looking around as John picked up his mobile.

It was from Lestrade.  _Have I lost my mind?_

 _Why do you ask?_ John replied.

 _Sherlock’s right.  I can’t do this on my own.  But I don’t want to leave Scotland Yard_.

John wasn’t sure what to say.  Hell, he wasn’t really sure how he felt about the whole situation.  He liked Lestrade well enough, and the girls were fun to have around every once in a while, but to have them living downstairs?

 _If I weren’t living here, would you still be hesitating?_ John sent.  If he was the only thing standing in the way of Sherlock’s proposition, then how could he say no?

 _Yes.  Probably_.

John considered that.  He couldn’t really counsel Lestrade in this decision.  It sounded like he’d already made up his mind and was just looking for someone to give him push in the same direction.  Tell him it was the right thing to do.  And he was looking for John to be that someone.  _Have you talked to the girls?_

There was a long pause before the next reply.  _Jeri’s all for it.  I don’t think she understands it means changing everything.  Jordan is a little more cautious but wants it.  She thinks it’ll be fun._

John was trying to think what to say to that when his phone dinged again.  _I hated growing up out west.  Boring as hell.  I ran off as soon as I could._

It sounded like Lestrade was teetering on the edge of his decision.  John gave in and sent him that extra little push he needed. _Shall I tell Sherlock to send over the moving van?_  

The next _ding_ came not from John’s mobile, but from Sherlock’s.  He had been watching John avidly, and now he sprung forward to snatch his mobile off the desk.  The look on his face as he read Lestrade’s text was triumph, but it was also relief and (dare John say it?) happiness.  John smirked.  Sherlock could call Lestrade an idiot and useless all he wanted, but when push came to shove, Sherlock’s true feelings were obvious.  He could no more give up Lestrade in his life than he could his experiments or his job.  And the sad thing was, Lestrade probably had no idea how much he meant to Sherlock.  John remembered the incident at Baskerville, when Sherlock had been outwardly callous towards Lestrade, but inside he had been quite pleased to see the Detective Inspector.  John had said as much to him, but he wasn’t sure Lestrade believed him.

John could see the wheels in Sherlock’s head turning as he thought about what steps he had to take now.  Text Mycroft, obviously.  The only man who had the power to cancel Lestrade’s current lease without any penalties and get a team of cleaners and movers together within the next few hours.  And of course Sherlock would want it all done right away so Lestrade wouldn’t have the chance to change his mind.  Yes, Mycroft was going to be a key person in this whole ordeal.  John just hoped Sherlock remembered to tell Mrs Hudson before they showed up.  He got up from his chair and headed for the front door.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock demanded.

“To Lestrade’s,” John answered.  “He’s going to need help packing up his stuff and keeping the girls in line when everything gets going.”

Sherlock pocketed his mobile.  “I’ll come with you.”

“No, you’re going to stay here and explain to Mrs Hudson what the hell you’ve just done.”

John left the flat, leaving a pouting and slightly apprehensive Sherlock behind.


End file.
